


I'm Not Scared But I Can't Move

by Batagur



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batagur/pseuds/Batagur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Sandburg goes under cover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Scared But I Can't Move

## I'm Not Scared But I Can't Move

#### by E. Batagur

Author's website: <http://www.soulsistahslash.com>  
Pet Fly owns all things 'The Sentinel.' I do not make profit from my use of the characters and/or situations.  
Many thanks to my beta readers:  
Legion who did it initial read through and the SenBetas, who did the follow-up.  
  
This story is a sequel to: http://Four Months in a Uniform

* * *

I'm Not Scared but I can't Move  
Blair Sandburg by the Sentinel Chapter 2 E, Batagur 

* _Back to the Grind_ * 

"I've got an Idea!" Blair sat down at his desk and stared at me in wide-eyed anticipation. I was sure that he expected me to be excited about his idea, too. You'd think that past experience would have taught him better. But as Bud used to say, 'hope springs eternal'. 

He scooted his chair a little closer in and looked at me from across the expanse of papers and mess starting on his side of our tandem desks and ending at the beginning of my side. He'd only been a detective for three weeks, and only just got the desk a week ago and already it looked like a train wreck. 

"Bear with me on this, Jim...You know reflex and control are linked with perception, right? And you know that perception is driven by sensory input-- Now, just follow me here, I'm not suggesting anything uncomfortable. I know you really don't like meditation...." 

"I never said I didn't like meditation," I broke in. 

He waved his hands in a placating fashion. "I know. I know..." 

"What are you driving at, Sandburg?" 

"Tai Chi, man! Tai Chi. It's like meditation, but not, and it links sensory input to reflex and motion. We could take a few classes... I bet after a while there could be a significant improvement...." 

I drilled a hole into him with a stare. "Improvement of what? My temper?" 

"No, your reflexes!" 

"Are you suggesting I'm slow?" 

"Not at all, Jim...It's just that..." 

I love backing him in a corner like that. Keeps him off balance and gives me a small measure of amusement. 

"Look, I just thought that it could be beneficial. You know...holistic meditation of a sort. It could really intensify your focus and help link your sense perception with your reflexes...." 

"Sandburg, I'm not taking any eastern new age pseudo-martial arts meditation nor am I ever taking Yoga, Pilates, Tai-Bo or any other one of these 'holistic' contortionist sessions which parade around under the label 'physical fitness programs'." I thought I made myself clear. 

"C'mon, Jim!" he whined at me. "Let me just get a video. Look it over. You might like it." 

"I doubt it." 

"You are such a dick some days." 

Simon was making his way towards us with that sort of grim, dogged look that signifies to me that he just got off the phone with someone in City Hall whom either he doesn't like or doesn't like him. His approach stoped the smart-ass reply I had all ready and lined up to throw back at Sandburg. 

"Jim, You still have that vagrants missing persons case floating around in your dossier?" 

Both Sandburg and I turned to face him. He came to our tandem desks and stared down at us looking worried. Simon's not easy to agitate but he is easy to piss off. You'd think that was the same thing but it's not. Simon wasn't pissed off. He was agitated. 

"Yeah, I still have it...never got far on it..." 

Simon looked me in the eye and gave this defeated sigh. "Both of you better come into my office." 

I looked over at my partner who looked over at me non-plussed. He grabbed the coffee mugs and we followed Simon back to his office. I had been smelling that special ground, Colombian roast coffee coming from his office all morning and when he opened the door to let us in the smell wafted over us like a rolling aromatic fog. It was delightful on most days, if I have my sense of smell dialed down to a proper level. It beat Laura Finkleman's flowers. Pollen is an irritant that I find is unattractive in every way. Have you ever seen it close up? Ugly. 

Blair took our cups over to Simon's pot. I watched him put a single scoop of sugar in my cup and two scoops in his own. He poured the coffee, making sure that he stopped mine a half inch before the rim. He knows exactly how I like my brew. He came back over to the front of Simon's desk and set the cup in front of me as we all settled into chairs. 

"I just got a call from the commissioners office," Simon began right away. "We need to get some answers out of this case, Jim." 

Something must have changed, but I couldn't think of what. I hadn't received any new reports of a missing vagrant in over a month. It was summer now. The homeless didn't hang as heavily around the shelters during the summer months. Most came in for the free meal, but living was easier in the summer. Food was easier to find as were handouts. A lot of vagrant were hanging about the University campus panhandling on the foreign students and grad students left over summer break. 

There was no sense beating around the bush. "What's changed, Simon?" 

Simon sighed again in that particular way that spelled bad news. "Apparently there has been another victim...Unofficially of course...This one isn't your run-of-the-mill vagrants. This one is the city prosecutor's son." 

"Huh?" Blair gawked at the Simon in a way that I would not. I'm not much into wearing my emotions all over my face like Sandburg. 

Simon lifted a thin file off of his desk and slid it my way. "This is from vice. The kid's name is Jeff Cook. His mother is Martha O'Shannasey of the prosecuting attorney's office. He has--issues--if you will..." 

In the folder was a standard mug shot of a young man in his early twenties, a little rough, a little scruffy, pretty normal looking. Blair leaned to peer at the folder over my arm. Jeff Cook had a record for petty theft and prostitution. 

"Son Jeff is a manic depressive who doesn't like to take his medication. When he's manic, he does things he ought not to do...Like take off from his home and live on the streets for weeks...turn tricks...He has a sheet with vice, as you can see, and he has a history with some of the shelters in Southtown." 

"And now he's come up missing," Blair supplied. 

"Yes," Simon replied bluntly. "The commissioner's office wants it treated as one of the Southtown vagrant investigations." 

"How long has the kid been missing?" I asked. 

"About a month." Simon looked disgusted for a moment as he thought of it. "Family never thinks much about his disappearing every now and again. He has a few friends on the strip on the lower end that the family literally pays to keep tabs on him. He's a bit of an embarrassment, as you can see. 

"Last thing the city prosecutor wants people to see during an election year is her son getting arrested for smoking bones in an ally behind the Powder Keg Grill. Bad enough that he hang out in seedy clubs that are renown for their glory-holes." 

I could tell that Blair was getting more indignant of the family's treatment of their 'black sheep' than he was over the young man's illicit activities. "Yeah, but the guy has a mental health issue. You'd think the family would care about that instead of sweeping him under the carpet as an embarrassment." 

Simon lifted his hands in bafflement as he shook his head. What could he say really? It's not his fault some elected official is an ass-hole. 

"Look, all I know is that the Cook/O'Shannasey family wants their son found-- dead or alive-- and wants Major Crimes to find him. If that means counting him in among the other missing homeless, then do it." Simon then turned to me. "Jim, do we know if any of the other missing men are 'boys-from-the-strip'?" 

"I never looked into that angle too deeply. I'll have to go back over the file and my notes." 

"Get on this one ASAP. The commissioner wants results soon. O'Shannasey pulled a lot of strings at city hall and now the place looks like a hornets nest." 

"Can't do anything by half with that woman." I muttered. 

"She's the prosecutor, for chrissake. They don't do anything by half. " Simon had reason to be disgruntled over O'Shannasey. Almost all department captains have had a bad run-in with 'Manic Martha'. On one hand, she can demand this stringent perfection from an investigation that can cause most detectives to develop bleeding ulcers. On the other hand, she can go for a suspect's throat like a pit-bull with only circumstantial evidence and a shaky coerced confession. Is it any wonder her progeny is manic-depressive? I'm just thankful that we only deal face-to-face with her assistants, like Beverly Sanchez. 

"Just do this, you two, so I can tell her that I have my best team on the problem and she'll slink back to her hole at city hall. " 

Personally I didn't think she was going to go away that easily. 

"Very good, Sir." 

* * *

When we returned to our desks, I pulled the file up again after what seem like an endless winter of getting no where. This case had me in a rut since November. Sandburg rounded the desk and stared at it from over my shoulder. 

"You really didn't get far with this one, did you?" he muttered practically in my ear. 

I turned my head to glare at him expecting him to back off of my personal space, but he didn't. In fact, he reached over my shoulder to scroll down. Now, I should have known better. Remember that this is the guy who thinks that a direct line to my thoughts and feelings is his birthright. He's the one who has the pin number to my ATM card... God, I don't think Caroline ever had my ATM pin. I don't think she ever asked for it either. Maybe that's the difference. 

I turned slightly in my chair and push him back a few inches off my shoulder. "No. I didn't get any solid leads. All these 'victims' are vagrants. Who's to say that they just didn't....move on?" I shrugged. 

"Yeah." Blair reached over my shoulder and scrolled the screen even more. This little move put him directly back over my shoulder from where I pushed him back. I could tell he did it on purpose to annoy me. "Hmm..." 

"Do you mind, Sandburg?" Why would he insist on crowding me? 

"Well, most of these happened in winter...Vagrants usually don't travel much in winter. They find an optimal place to wait the winter out and stay put." 

"We haven't found a single body yet..." 

"All between the ages of thirty-nine and twenty..." he muttered half to himself. Now he was too engrossed in what he was reading to care that he was half laying across my back. 

"Do you want me to copy the file to you, or perhaps I can get a chin rest installed on my shoulder?" My voice came out with just the right amount of 'dangerously calm Ellison' and obvious sarcasm that I was sure a box of rocks would have gotten the hint. 

I should have had a box of rocks for a partner. 

"And you never checked how many of them hung around 'the strip'...?" 

I sighed explosively. "No I did not, Sandburg." 

"But a lot of them where fairly young for just vagrants...in their late twenties and early thirties..." 

"Yes, I noticed." 

"The ones who still had their looks could work 'the strip', " he went on. 

"I'm sure..." 

"Then why don't we check it out?" 

I turned in my chair to face him, forcing him up off my back. He looked down at me with that 'I'm a happy camper in camp Sandburg' look and I just wanted to bounce him of a wall for a few minutes. He loves to irritate me, I know. 

"Just like that, Chief? No game plan? Didn't you learn squat in the academy?" 

"I learned my best detective techniques from you." Then he gave me this big cheesy grin. I refused to take the bait so I just glared back at him. 

"I have a couple of ideas, but first we gotta make an appointment with the soup kitchen administrator at the St. Vincent DePaul society on Whittier." 

"You know. I think Charlie still work over at the Ninth Street Out Reach Center. Maybe we can talk to them as well..." 

"Already have," I informed him. "But it can't hurt to try them again." 

* * *

Later, as we were driving down Market Street heading towards Ninth and Lane Ave., He finally asked me the question I had been waiting for. 

"So, what kind of ideas do you have?" 

"We need better physical descriptions of the missing men to make sure I didn't over look some sort of connection there. If it works out the way I think it will, I might be able to slip into the community...maybe get more info out of the locals and the other homeless. If we get Simon's permission, I can pose as a displaced worker...down on his luck...Just in the area..." 

He started snickering. I hate it when he does that. "What?" 

"I'm sorry, Jim, but no one is going to believe that a guy like you with a high and tight hair cut and a body that screams 'frequent gym patron' is down on his luck and homeless." 

"I don't know. I can let myself go...get a little scruffy..." 

"Jim, believe me, I've been with you in the backwoods of this state and in the jungles of Peru. You always look immaculate...even when you're filthy. I don't think you have a scruffy bone in your body." 

"You gotta better idea, Chief?" 

He sat there for a moment, looking straight ahead out the windshield. I could see his expression. He was weighing his options. He was looking over his answer, turning it over in his mind. 

"I could do the undercover," he answered simply. 

I really had no legitimate words but maybe it was force of habit that made my head shake a negative even as my jaw clamped down on the refusal. 

"But, Jim, you know that I'm better suited physically for this." 

I looked over at him for a moment and realized he was right. Sandburg can bum out pretty damn well. He also cleans up good too. But right then, he was looking a lot more unkempt than he had looked in a while. Ever since he picked up his gold shield he swore off barbers again. He was determined to get that crazy mop back. And with it just coming around noon, I could already see the beginnings of his five o'clock shadow, hairball that he is. 

"I've got more scruffy clothing," he continued. "I'm flabbier. And let's face it, these guys that have been disappearing have been mostly around the ages of twenty to mid-thirties?" 

"Yes, what's that gotta do with it?" I glared at him as a warning. I knew where he was going. 

"I hate to break it to ya, man, but you're forty-two." He charged right on ahead with it, and I clamp my jaw shut once more around an angry reply. One of these days... 

Still, he was right. He had a valid argument. I'm in my forties and getting older. Apparently,he thought it shows. However, his point was that a good number of our missing vagrants where closer to twenty-five to thirty five than over thirty-five. If we were looking to set bait, Blair was probably the better choice. 

"You know, going undercover isn't always about making yourself a target, Chief. Sometimes it's about getting in and getting more info. What, were you sleeping in class when they went over this stuff?" I said, steering him clear from the subject of my age. I didn't want to hear anymore of his opinion on that issue. 

He looked at me like I had gone loony. "They never went over this stuff at the academy...Just the legal stuff. You know--entrapment --illegal search and seizure. That kind of stuff. And I'm just saying that I think I'll be accepted into the homeless sub-culture better than you would." 

"Homeless sub-culture?" Okay, he was slapping his anthropologist/sociologist psycho-babble on it. Some days I feel like he does that just to make me feel dumb. Okay, Chief, you have lots more education than I do. 

"They have one," he said with sincerity. 

"And you would be better accepted into it." My sarcasm was well layered. 

He was quiet for a moment. I wondered if he was mad or just considering his answer. It is hard to tell with Blair...I mean, when he is really mad, he gets kind of quiet. Then he explodes and then he gets quiet again. 

"Jim, have you ever been homeless?" he asked. 

"No." 

"I have. I was for nearly twelve years of my life. Mom and I drifted across country for probably most of my childhood. I know what it is like to be homeless. I know what it's like to not know where your next meal is coming from...or if you'll get a next meal. I know what it's like to go to sleep one place and wake up someplace else. I've thumbed rides, hiked roads, and hopped trains (Although that was only once and mom hated it. We only did it because her friend talked us into going with him.) And I've known all kinds of homeless people. It's different for every type. We were hippie nomads. We stuck together and shared often. We weren't like the displaced workers or the migrants or the crazies. But that doesn't mean I don't know or understand them too." 

He was right again. Damn him anyway. Over the years I've learned to respect his intelligence and experience in the world. He has been to so many different places and seen so many different things. I sometimes forget he began his life as a hippie's love child. 

I have never truly been homeless. I left my dad's home a month before my eighteenth birthday and fell almost directly into the arms of the army. The Army became my home. They fed me and clothed me and sent me to school. As far as I was concerned back then, my drill sergeant was about as compassionate as my dad. I know better now. 

"Okay, Chief. Point made. But we still have to get our initial info. That may turn up a better lead. Then we have to get it all okayed by Simon." 

We made it to the Ninth Street Outreach Center and Soup Kitchen just after lunch. The crowd had thinned considerably. It was summertime and the needy didn't seem to need as much...at least that was my observation. 

Charlie, a long time volunteer, recognized us immediately and waved us back. The young man seemed excessively pleased to see us. Funny, when I saw him a few months ago he had been pleasant but not next to excited like he was now. 

"Hey, guys!" he said but he was smiling at Blair. As the young man came closer, my sense of smell gave me the full story. Charlie was literally gushing pheromones. I looked over at Blair, who was just smiling pleasantly at him. It made me wonder if he had seen Charlie since that little incident almost a year ago. I don't like to remember that case too much. It's unnerving to think that this crazy gift of mine may be capable of giving me the ability to see ghosts. It sort of gives me the feeling that I may see some portion of my life any day on some episode of The Outer Limits. 

Well, Charlie was a university grad student, he certainly knew Blair at Rainier. But Charlie is also almost blatantly gay, and the wafting hormonal fog that he was throwing off right then was literally walking sex and I couldn't help but think it was all aimed at Sandburg. 

I had nothing to say so I smiled my hello. 

"Hey, Charlie," Blair was pleasant and noncommittal. I knew he couldn't smell it but there was awkwardness in the air about him. Certainly he could sense something. 

"So what brings you two out slummin'," Charlie nearly simpered at Blair, and I thought I was going to be sick. 

"We're sorta working on something, Charlie," Blair half mumbled. It was the Sandburg mumble of discomfort. The guy was embarrassing him. 

"We need to talk to the administrator," I jumped in. "Ms. Lloyd?" 

"Oh, yeah." Charlie turned to me like I was a conversation he accidentally dropped. He looked a little uncomfortable as if he realized that he has been a bit rude. "Maggie's in her office...Just down the hall there, towards the back storage..." 

He pointed down the long room to the back halls that led to some storage rooms and the restroom. I still remembered the layout of the place. And I still remembered the smell, rank and dusty. The smell of mold and mothballs mixed with the deeper funk of unwashed humanity. The homeless left their mark in smell. But the bulk of the smell came from the clothing donated to the shelter; the old worn cast off of the more fortunate, packed in mothballs and left in basements and attics till spring-cleaning. That's were they cultivate that wonderful aroma that is enough to knock my sinuses through my brain. 

I nodded at Charlie. "C'mon, Chief." I didn't even look back over my shoulder to see if he would follow. But I did hear Charlie softly say; "Can I speak with you?" 

I didn't even check my stride. I kept marching with single-minded determination towards Margaret Lloyd office. However my hearing stayed with Blair when he answered, "Sure." 

"What is it, Charlie?" 

The younger man was nervous. There was a trembling in his breath that was like nervous laughter but he said, "I just wondered how you were. I hadn't seen you in a long time..." 

"Well, I've been kinda busy," Blair answered and I could just picture the shrug and contrite look on his face. 

"I'd thought you would call...I...well...They gave you a raw deal at Rainier...We all sorta miss you. I miss you." 

Okay, Blair not only womanized women, but men too? If I was hearing this right, and I knew that I was, Charlie was asking, 'why didn't you call?' - the classic one-night-stand, hit-and-run line from the victim. 

"Everything was so sudden... My life has been a mess. I'm just getting it all turned around. You can understand, can you? I just didn't have time for anything--big." 

Oh, he's good. 

Charlie's breathing slowed as he digested this explanation. He calmed down, just what Blair wanted, I was sure. 

"I can understand that," Charlie said in an easier tone. "By the way, the hair looks good." 

"You really think so? I'm trying to grow it out again. Had to cut it for the police academy." 

"Yeah..." Charlie gave another nervous laugh. He knew that his time had run out, and he had not accomplished what he wanted to do. I half expected him to blurt out some desperate invitation to dinner, but he remained quiet. 

"I gotta catch up with Jim. Hey, I'll talk to you later, okay?" Blair said, and I could tell by the accompanying sounds of shifting clothing that Blair was already on the move. I tuned out. 

The Door to Margaret Lloyd office was half-open, but I still knocked politely. 

"Come in." Ms. Lloyd half-stood from behind her desk to address us. A slim well dressed woman, who was as distinguished looking as she was beautiful, she had not been with the center the last time Blair and I had come here looking for that poor nut-case vagrant Robert Dunlop. She was relatively new. A nice lady, but you can tell she is a hired philanthropist, and a paid administrator. She's a little more work orientated than charity and community conscious. 

"Hello again Ms. Lloyd." I just wanted to get this over with and get out of this musty depressing place. She had more stacked boxes of clothing in here and these reeked of a spicy perfume-- patchouli in fact. I needed to sneeze. I heard Blair hastily come up from behind. 

"Detective," The woman smiled, and even her smile was professional. She extended a hand to greet me. "You're back. I hope you have some good news." 

She had been one of the people involved in the original complaint, her and about a half-dozen other volunteers and administrators from the areas homeless charities. And she, like most of them, was the wife of someone rich and influential. If I remembered correctly, her husband is was one of the chief analysts for one of the big investment firms that had an office here in Cascade. 

"Unfortunately, I'm only here to ask a few more questions, if you have the time, Ms. Lloyd?" I tried to smile at her, but my eyes were starting to burn. "You haven't met my partner yet. This is Detective Sandburg." I waved back to Blair who stepped forward a little. 

God, that was weird-- Detective Sandburg. It just rolled off my tongue so naturally but the back bite or the aftertaste of it is was what hit me. Detective Sandburg.... And I didn't know what it is was exactly that felt so outta place. Maybe it's just three years of my partner just being Mister Sandburg. 

"It's good to meet you, Detective." Ms. Lloyd reached past me to take Blair's hand. Blair only smiled as he shook her hand. I guessed he was going to let the senior detective do the talking today. 

"You haven't heard anything from some of your missing residents, yourself, Ms. Lloyd?" 

"No, not a thing," she sighed. "I tell you, Detective, it's frustrating. We know these people... most of them... and we know they would not just up and leave in the middle of winter... and not take what few personal items they own in this world." 

"We realize your concern, Ms. Lloyd, but they are all adults. It is possible that they just found someplace ... better," I shrugged. 

"I know what you are thinking, Detective." Now she had this fierce expression on her face. "I guarantee that we are not just wasting the police's valuable time. I thought your function was to serve and protect. Are those who are less fortunate not worthy of protection too? If this had been ten or twelve men of wealth or connections, wouldn't the police be doing everything in its power to alleviate the anxiety of their families?" 

"Certainly you can see, Ms. Lloyd," Blair stepped in, "That your analogy is hardly applicable. Men of means with families are less likely to pick-up and move on. We have to weigh all such disappearances upon a profile of probable behavior. Although I agree that a vagrant is not likely to chose winter to wander to better opportunities-- and leave his personal items behind-- he is certainly more likely to do such a thing than any working family man of this city. And with no direct evidence of foul play...," he trailed off there and let Ms. Lloyd infer the rest. 

"Yes, I see, Detective." she sighed again. "It's hardly a crime to disappear without a trace." She then looked up at us, determined. "But you had a question?" 

"Yes," I pulled the picture of Jeff Cook that we got from his file from my back pocket and presented it to her. "Do you recall this man ever being a part-time resident at your facility?" 

She took the picture and looked it over carefully as a frown developed on her face. "Yes...Yes, I've seen this young man. Not recently, but certainly in the past." 

"Are you aware of who he is?" 

"No." She shook her head. "But you can ask Charlie or Dave. They have far more contact with the residents than I do." Then she frowned at me. "Is he missing too?" 

"There is a possibility," I answered, then to forestall any other questions," Thank you for your help, Ms. Lloyd. We'll be in touch." I turned to leave. Blair followed closely. 

Once we were at a good distance from her door he muttered in a voice only I could hear, "She's right, you know. Jeff Cook is a man of wealth and connections whose family has pull enough to mobilize the police." 

I didn't answer. He was right. 

We caught up with Charlie again. He was folding more of the old musty clothing that litters this place in every corner. He looked up at us as we approached with a far more subdued smile. 

"What is it?" He asked. 

I pulled the picture again. "You've seen this guy around?" 

Charlie nodded as he looked over the picture. "Sure. Calls himself Jay, but I doubt that is his real name. He's around from time to time. I figure he's got someone who takes care of him. He disappears for a long while then comes back." 

"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked. 

He shrugged and looked up at us. "Dunno, a little more than a month...maybe two. He came in here with another guy, a regular, Drew. I remember because it was one of his excited days. He was talking loud and harassing the other residents. I think he has a personality disorder, but I never talked with him long enough to figure out just what it was." 

"He hasn't been back since?" 

"No." 

"What about this Drew guy?" Blair asked. "Do you think he has seen him?" 

"Don't know," Charlie responded. "Drew disappeared over a month ago. Left all his stuff...He hasn't been back." 

For a moment there was silence between us, and I know that Sandburg was silently commiserating with Charlie's apparent indignation over the whole affair. Me, I was thinking there's a connection somewhere here. I just have to ask the right question. 

But it was Blair who supplied the question. "So Drew disappeared. Was Drew back anytime after you saw him with this Jay character, or did he just disappear right then?" 

Charlie stopped his introspective and thinks. "I don't think I saw Drew again after that. No, not after that." 

"So it is safe to say that Drew disappeared just after you saw him with Jay?" Sandburg was trying to get the Charlie to make a connection here. I knew where he was going, but I think I would have been more direct. 

"Yeah...Jay is missing too?" Charlie finally put two and two together. 

"There is reason to believe that he may be missing," Blair didn't give too much away. I was glad. He had learned a trick or two over the years. 

Charlie looked a bit uncomfortable with this knowledge but I think it was only because he didn't like this whole business anyway. I just wanted to see where Blair would lead this line of witness questioning. 

"The last time you saw them, they were together?" Blair watched Charlie's face closely. I was impressed. "You said Jay was being loud and harassing the other residents? Do you remember anything he might have said? Any one he may have talked to?" 

Charlie thought for a while. "Yeah.... He was giving old Gus a hard time.... But I don't know what about." 

"Is Gus around?" Blair asked. I was content now to just be the observer. 

"No," Charlie looked about the semi crowded room full of shuffling and unkempt humanity. "But I bet he'll be back this evening. I'll be here till six tonight. Should I ask him?" 

"No.... Thanks, Charlie." Blair smiled. "We'd like to talk to him though. " Blair reached into his back pocket and pulled one of his shiny new cards from his wallet. "Can you call me at this number here, when you see him?" He pointed at his evening cell number. 

"Yeah. Sure..." Charlie smiled at Blair again taking his card like it was an invitation to the dance. 

That could get uncomfortable. 

Heading back to Central he brought up the bullshit about him going undercover again. 

"I bet I could slip in to the scene on the southeast side easy. Make it look like I'm working the business around the GrapeVine and the Powder Keg. We could set up a regular pick up with other detectives so that it will appear as if I'm doin' Johns. Spend a few nights in the shelters. I bet I could hear something." 

"We'll worry about that later, Chief," I tried to remain calm and rational. I don't know. Part of me wanted to bellow at him, 'You're not going under, Sandburg, and that is final.' But another part of me knew that was illogical. Simon would decide in the end who would go under. All I could do was give Simon my best scenario, but I have to admit, Blair's sounded better. "Let's concentrate on getting more statements from potential witnesses. We still don't know that there is a crime." 

"Humph." It was a small snort of breath, and I knew what it meant. Blair thought I was blowing him off, but he was too piss-off to say anything about it. Well, at least not yet anyway. I was sure he'd whine at me later. 

* _Roast Beef and Memories_ * 

We were home by five thirty that evening. I didn't fight him for the shower. I just let him go. Meanwhile I took the roast out that I had thawing in the refrigerator. I just had this craving for pot roast lately. I didn't know why. I managed to con Sally out of her recipe last awkward dinner ordeal at my dad's house. 

Ever since that business with that lunatic Foster, Dad has got it in his head that he needs to invite me and Steven over at least once every three months for a family dinner. Said he just wants to see his boys every now and again. I can understand the reasoning behind it. After coming so close to losing him, I also don't mind suffering through one night every few months of awkward conversation and uncomfortable silences. I can take it. We've had a few break-throughs. Stevie is more apt to skip out on us, but I don't mind so much. He was worried about dad, but he wasn't there when it all happened. I think he was out of town. 

Anyhow, I managed to pry from Sally the secret of her pot roast. So she gave me the ingredient. 

\--3 pound pot roast  
\--3 ounces of salt pork, blanched and diced \--salt and pepper  
\--1 cup dry red wine  
\--1 large onion, quartered and sliced  
\--1 bay leaf  
\--1 small clove garlic, minced  
\--all-purpose flour 

And the final ingredient, the clincher, is a pinch of ginger. I wouldn't have guessed. The wine changes the ginger's taste. It's still sharp and spicy but just not gingery. 

I have to be careful with ginger. If I get the powder in the air, I will sneeze all night. I have to be careful with most sharp spices. Blair, who is normally very understanding, makes fun of me about my sensitivities to the spices I chose to cook with. He's always saying that he needs to build a clean-room to go around my spice rack. 

I got the ingredients put together in my largest roasting pot and got it ready to go. It was going to take at least three hours to cook. That meant we wouldn't be eating till nine PM. We could wait. It was worth the wait. This pot roast is excellent if done right. Sally always managed to get the pinch of ginger just right. I figure that with my heightened smell, I should be able to judge the wine broth. I practically added it one granule at a time. 

Sandburg was out of the shower by the time the oven was pre-heated. I put a loose foil cover over the roast to help it brown and I shoved it all in feeling accomplished. It was going to turn out okay. Sally would be proud. 

I wasn't due for a call from the old man till sometime in mid-July. I thought that maybe I should try a preemptive strike and call him; maybe see if he wanted to go up to Seattle for a change and catch a Mariners game. Baseball isn't really my first sport of choice, but dad likes it. I can take an awkward silence or two between innings. 

Blair came out of his room changed into a loose tee-shirt and raggedy, cut-off sweat pants. The steam and smell has dissipated enough in the bathroom that I can go in for my shower. I jogged upstairs quickly to get a fresh towel and my bathrobe. When I come down Blair was folded neatly on the couch, sitting with his legs sorta half-lotus. He was wearing his glasses and reading one of his anthropology journals. Mauve color, must have been Theoretical Anthropology. I've tried reading that mess once. It wasn't at all like what I expected. I guess I shouldn't be so obtuse. I mean I know that there is more to Anthropology than just studying other cultures in distant lands. 

I slipped into the bathroom without even causing him to glance up. I didn't take that long of a shower. It was more of a shower to just rinse the sweat off. Summer wasn't hot yet, but it was getting warm out there. 

I came out of the bathroom and crossed to the kitchen and checked on the roast. It had only been about a half-hour so it should only be starting to cook. I went up stairs to change. 

After I came down in a new shirt and fresh jeans, I headed back out to the kitchen to grab a soda. Just as I passed the center island, the cell phone perched on top of a loaf of bread begins to ring. It was Blair's phone. I was closest to it. 

"You want me to answer this, Chief?" 

He gave me this owl-eyed look from behind his glasses. "Yeah, could you?" 

"Detective Sandburg's phone." I said after a breath and a hesitation. I'm so use to just barking 'Ellison' into any receiver. 

"Ah... Yeah, is Blair there?" It sounded like Charlie. 

"Just a minute." I stepped around the counter. "Is this Charlie?" 

"Yeah." He sounded a little less confused. I continue towards Sandburg. 

"I'm hoping that you are calling because you remember something, or you've talked to that resident you mentioned to us?" 

"Yeah... Ah, Jim?.... I talked to Gus. I think he remembers something... But he seems a little... er... I dunno... disturbed?" 

"Yeah, is he still at the center?" I was standing next to Sandburg's knee now, but I was not giving up his phone. "Do you think he'll answer a few questions from us?" 

"I don't know," Charlie continued, more at ease. "He got pretty upset when I brought it up." 

"Try to keep him there if you can...." 

"Ah... Okay, but my shift was up...." 

"We'll be there as fast as we can. We don't want to take chances. If word gets out that we are putting pressure on folks about these missing men, people are liable to clam up. Thanks, Charlie." 

I didn't let him answer. I just hung up. 

"Let's go, Chief." 

Blair blinked at me. He'd been watching with great interest since the phone conversation began. 

"And just what was that about... _on my phone?_ " 

"Charlie says Gus might know something." 

"And what's the rush?" he asked as he closed his journal and unfolded his legs. 

"People are missing. I don't wanna wait till tomorrow if Gus can go missing too." 

* * *

I promised Charlie speed, but I should have known better. There is no haste where Blair Sandburg is concerned. After I convinced him that now was a good time to talk to a potential witness, I had to wait for him to change out of his cut-offs and into a regular pair of jeans. But Just like Sandburg, it took him a while to find a pair that was clean. In the end he settled on a pair that was less dirty than the rest and we were off. 

We got to the Outreach Center at about a quarter till seven. Charlie was supposed to be off at six. He met us at the door. 

"Sorry about this, Charlie," was Blair's half-mumbled opening line. He brushed past Charlie looking contrite. Charlie smiled. The ol' Sandburg charm still worked. 

"Thanks, Charlie." I said as I entered behind Sandburg. "Which one is Gus?" 

Charlie motioned for us to follow, and we begin to weave through the common room, with its long tables were the center's meals are served. Gus was a scruffy-looking, thin man in maybe his late forties or early fifties. He had sharp dark eyes and a salt-n-pepper beard. He smelled funny. It wasn't the usual unwashed humanity smell that I am more accustomed to. The best way to describe it is that he smelled like a not-so-fresh urinal cake, if you know what I mean. 

"Gus?" Charlie addressed the man in a careful tone. "These are some friends of mine." 

The man turned his head to look Blair and me over with a quick critical eye and a disapproving frown. A thin shaking hand pushed greasy hair back on his forehead. Before he even opened his mouth, I could smell the booze. 

"Who are you?" 

I pulled my shield and displayed it. "Sir, I'm Detective Ellison; this is my partner Detective Sandburg...." There went that weird aftertaste again. "We'd like to ask you a few questions?" 

"I don't know nothin'" The man refused to give us eye contact, and he looked down at the cup of coffee before him. His shoulders hunched in, and I knew he was hunkering down inside to resist. He was afraid of something. His heartbeat had sped up. 

"You seen this man?" I passed Jeff Cook's picture between his nose and his coffee cup. 

Gus shifted his eyes back up at me. I dialed down my sense of smell and took a seat next to him on the bench. 

"I ain't seen 'em recently. What's that gotta do with anything?" 

I understand this kind of paranoia. It is common out on the streets and especially among those who have nothing but everything to lose. Fear of cops and fear of thugs runs high around here. And cooperating with one could earn the wrath of the other. I didn't change tactics with him. I'm a straightforward kinda guy. However, I did change my voice. I softened it a bit, made it as non-threatening as I could without losing my decisiveness. 

"We would appreciate it if you could tell us anything that you can remember about the last time you saw him?" 

The man cleared his throat, and I could tell by the grumble within him that he was either an asthmatic or he was well on his way towards emphysema. It was hard to tell which. I just knew it was not bronchitis. Bronchitis was a high pitched rumble that seems to come from the middle of a person's throat. Asthma and emphysema was deep in the lungs. I remember how Cassie Wells use to gurgle like a purring cat in my sensitive ears. 

Gus's eyes traveled from me to Blair then back to me as if he was sizing us up, determining how thug-worthy we were. His small eyes narrowed at me. 

"Stupid punk," he announced first. There was contempt in his eyes. "I saw him... I saw them both talking to that man.... What's his name....Brutus? I don't know.... Don't trust him though. Easy money, bullshit!" 

Never heard of Brutus before. I wondered if he was a new supplier working the strip. Sometimes it was easier to get some of the street twinks to push the product for commission rather than get regular thugs. The problem was that most of the twinks were the bulk of the customers. You really couldn't trust the product around them. 

"Easy money?" I prompted the man, but he turned away. 

"Don't know 'nothin," He muttered down at his mug of coffee once more. 

I knew that that was all we were going to get from ol' Gus this evening. Actually it was quite a start. Sandburg looked frustrated, but he had to realize what kind of wealth of information Gus had just handed to us. He's been around long enough to know how it works. I pulled one of my cards out of wallet. 

"If you remember anything more that may help, you can call me... Or tell Charlie here. He knows how to get a hold of me." I laid the card down next to the coffee mug. "Thank you for your time." 

I pulled myself up from the bench and away from the man's overpowering smell, grateful, as always, that Sandburg taught me that trick of dialing it down. I don't think normal people can even do that. Some people can just ignore strong smell, I know. But I can actually turn them off. It works and I'm not sure how. 

I patted Charlie's shoulder as we walked past. "Thanks a lot. We appreciate your staying." 

"Anything to help out...." He called to us as we headed towards the door. Now, is it me or did I hear a hidden message in those words directed at Sandburg? It's a little desperate voice saying _Call me?_

Blair didn't hear it, that little desperate, wistful sound in Charlie's voice. His pace doesn't slow as he walks with me out the door. But just outside the door he looked at me. And I could see the frustration still in his eyes. 

"We should have tried for more." 

"If we pushed him he would have clamed up further or started making things up to get us off his back." I explained. Blair may be an expert on cultures, but I knew something about human behavior, especially among the desperate. Gus was scared. Scared people fight or fly. In Gus's case, flight would have been to lie his way around us if he could. He knew more than he let on, but I wasn't about to let him muddy the waters with any falsehoods. He gave us the bare bones truth. It was up to us to make something of it. 

I climbed into the driver seat of the truck and waited for Sandburg to make his way in, sulking as he was. 

"We have enough for tonight. We have a name and that's a lead. Let's worry about it tomorrow. Dinner is nearly done." 

* * *

We got home at about quarter till eight, and the loft smelled glorious. I wanted to stop right there in the doorway and drink it in, but I was bustled aside by my partner who stumbled past heading for his room. 

"Dinner smells great," he said as he slipped off his shoes and tossed them through the open door of his room. He then headed back to the couch. I was heading to the kitchen just as he was folded himself up once more to sit on the couch with his journal still open to the page he left off. He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and within seconds was reabsorbed into his reading. 

I opened the oven to check the roast. The rich and delightful smell that hit my face was like a wave of happiness. It was warmth and delight. I lifted the foil to check. It probably had about another half hour to forty-five minutes to cook. Just to be certain, I stuck in a food thermometer. My guess was pretty good. 

I closed the oven, still drinking in the smell. Somewhere in my memory, there lives this little happy spot where that smell resides. It brought to me impressions more clear than images. It felt like fall and could see Sally smiling and telling me how much she appreciated my help with garbage day. Bud promised to help me with the new stuff coach has put into the playbook. Dad wasn't worried or rushed for once. He actually said something to me that could pass as a compliment... in the right setting. 

It was all little feelings and images that stirred up in me and made me have this overwhelming since of well being and contentment. It warmed me from the inside out and made me feel... well... all snuggly warm like when I was a kid and it was winter and the snow was falling outside my window but I had my big down comforter and I was so comfortable and safe and happy.... 

I looked up from the slight zone out I was in. The smell was still rolling through my brain in pleasant waves. I had forgotten why I loved Sally's roast beef so much. Now I remember. I did have some happy times as a child. 

I looked about myself. I surveyed my surroundings. This is my home with my things. Everything my eye lighted on I laid clam to; even Sandburg's knickknacks. Here I am safe. In this place, I am well. I am content. 

Then my eyes landed on Sandburg. He was just sitting there, so still, journal in his hands. The early evening sunlight through the bay window framed him. His eyes blinked at the pages he was reading. Long black lashes fluttered briefly over clear blue eyes. A stray curl fell softly down his forehead. I looked at it closely. I noted its velvet sheen in the sunlight, a curve of golden on black. I followed the shape to its wisping, tapered ends; each fine dark strand was lustrous and perfect. 

The smell of roast beef still filled the air around me as Sandburg filled my vision. My eyes followed the angle of his jaw down to his chin and noted the lush curve of his lower lip. My mouth was watering and my hands flexed to touch, to feel, to make my own. 

For a second time, I shook off a zone out and pushed uncomfortable thoughts away. 

"You, know what, chief?" I was in motion even before I had a plan formulated in my mind. I was heading towards the door with all due speed. "We need some wine to go with this." 

Blair looked up at me and gave me this little confused frown. "We have some red wine in the rack above the..." 

"No, no. That stuff isn't quite... right. I'll be back." I was out the door and in the elevator before he could say another word. 

I knew I had to get a hold of myself. 

* * *

The next day we spent a good part of our morning tracking down some old paperwork from a case that was about to go to trial. Both of our testimonies were necessary even though at the time of the bust, Blair was still only my civilian observer. The wheels of justice move pretty damn slow and this case has taken nearly another year to go to trial after an initial mistrial. There was some brew-ha over evidence being illegally gathered by forensics. That would be our lovely and talented Cassie Wells, who promptly received her walking papers after that first mistrial. She had still been on six-month new-hire probation. 

Nice girl, but a bit of an eager beaver. I told her it would get her nothing but trouble. Heard she landed a job with the state crime lab. Good for her. 

After the paper trail was done we loaded ourselves into the truck. 

"Now to get some real information," I said as we left the station garage. 

"What? Are we going back to the Outreach center?" Blair looked over at me. I bet he though we were just going for lunch. 

"Nope." 

"Then where, pray, will we get this 'real information,' Detective Ellison?" 

"We have an appointment, Detective Sandburg." It was getting easier to say those words: Detective Sandburg. 

"An appointment," said more as a statement than a question. The look on his face was one of amusement and mistrust. He didn't really ask, but I did tell him. 

"With Sneaks." 

"With Sneaks." He nodded his head and looked out the windshield with a tight smile. "One thing, Jim." 

"Yeah?" 

"I wanna stop at home first." 

"Why?" 

"To change my shoes." 

* * *

We caught up with my errant snitch at the Pearl Street Diner. He was nursing a BLT and giving a young blonde waitress a hard way to go. Then he saw us coming and, of course, all the antics stopped. He was looking as virtuous as an angel and as happy as a clam by the time we reached his booth. 

He pointed at Blair with a genuine look of surprise. "Hey, your buddy got a hair cut! Nice, nice. Good for the hot weather coming up too." 

"It's temporary," Blair pronounced between clenched teeth. 

I saddled myself into the seat across from Sneaks. Blair pushed into the booth next to me. Something about Sneaks repulses Sandburg. I don't know what it is. Before, I just thought that he was annoyed and uncomfortable by my snitch's attention to his footwear. Now I'm not so sure. 

"You two staying for lunch?" Sneaks inquired jovially. "The special is great! Mashed potatoes and an open face meatloaf sandwich covered in this gravy that is like melted heaven...." 

"We really don't have the time today." I smiled at him. I wanted to try to keep it brief, if only for Sandburg's sake. 

"What have you got for me today, gentleman." And he looked straight at Sandburg when he said this. Gripping the tabletop, he shifted for a quick peek under the table at our footwear. 

"Sorry. Loafers." Sandburg smiled and shrugged in all too fake sympathy. And I saw Sneaks' face literally fall as he spied the brown leather loafers adorning Sandburg's feet. I was no better in my leather hikers. 

"Damn!" he exclaimed in disappointment. 

"Don't panic," I quickly assured him. "If what you have to tell us is any good, we can make it worth your while monetarily." 

"Enough that I can perhaps purchase a sweet little pair of AirACG that I've had my eye on?" 

"Depends on what you have to tell us." 

"What do you need to know?" He leaned forward ready to talk. 

I gave him the most important fact first. "What do you know about a man called Brutus." 

He sat back a bit as he thought. "Depends on where you are talking about." 

"I'm talking about the strip, South Market and Front Street." 

"Twink-land... Near the Powder Keg. I heard a rumor or two. But I didn't think this guy would be your type of mark." 

"Why?" 

"He don't deal... At least that's my understanding." Sneak sat back further with a smirk on his face. "He's more of a man for...er... business opportunities." 

"Do you know what these opportunities are?" 

Sneaks shrugged. "Hey, that's one for your vice cops maybe. I don't know. I've heard all kinds of stories from kinky sex to medical experiments. Who knows... except the slobs who take him up and meet him at his warehouse on Harbor View." 

"What?" Sandburg chimed in. "He has a warehouse?" 

"Yeah, at least that's what I've heard. He tells the prospectives to meet him there. They go in and don't come out...Poof! Like magic. Disappear off the face of the earth. But that's all rumors. I think someone just wants to make up a Southtown bogeyman." Sneaks giggled obnoxiously. 

"And this warehouse is on Harbor View?" I was trying to keep him on track. 

He shrugged and looked at me. "Just what I've heard." 

"That's all we need." I reached into my wallet and pulled out a pair clean fifties, but I only gave him one. 

"Hey!" The protest was to be expected. "I thought that you were gonna give me enough for the footwear!" 

"You want me to pay for a load of rumors?" Now it was my turn to shrug at him. 

"Okay." He looked disgruntled but I knew we'd get something of real worth now. "Lotsa people are talkin' bout Brutus. They say he does pay good, if you survive. I don't know what it is. I steer clear. That's bad freakin' business down there. The warehouse is the last one on Harbor View, just a block before the Sundance bar.... And that is all I know." 

I handed over the other fifty. Pretty good. 

Sandburg and I left Sneaks' company with our footwear intact. Back at the station we ran the ownership of warehouses on Harbor View. We didn't find a Brutus. But Sandburg did find something. 

"Marcus Junius." He pointed at the screen at the lease holders name. "I bet it's a pseudonym. Junius Brutus was the father of Marcus Brutus, Caesar's best friend. And it fits the location description Sneaks gave us." 

"Guess we should take a look at it?" I suggested. 

The warehouse was pretty nondescript. The lower office space was locked with a padlock. It was a squat brown brick structure stuck to the larger gray warehouse that was roughly two stories tall. The main warehouse was not locked at all, and it was empty. It was dark and silent and cavernous. I approached the loading bay doors slowly. Sandburg was behind me. There was not cause for us to draw weapons. This place was empty. Empty except for two barrels. 

The barrels sat together close to the door looking about as uninteresting as two barrels could look. Old containers, empty trash barrels, nothing. But something tickled my sinuses, and I could not help myself. 

"What is it, Jim?" Blair followed me at a trot as I made my way across the loading dock to the barrels. Both containers were closed with metal lids. My eyes scanned quickly for a bar to pry them open with. Failing to locate one, I turn to Sandburg. 

"Go to the truck and get the crowbar." I told him flatly. He didn't question. He just went. A minute later the crowbar was in my hand. 

It didn't take a lot of effort to pry the lid off the first barrel, and we both stared down into its contents a little confused. Gray powder, dark and fine. It could have been very fine ash. It certainly smelled like ash to me. But there was something about it... about the smell. I put a finger in. Without really thinking about it, I lifted it to my mouth to taste. I only vaguely heard Sandburg's warning. 

"No, no, no, Jim! We don't know what it is or where it's been!" 

It was too late. The world went away as I was caught up in a memory too powerful to ignore. 

* * *

Rerbawa had been a good man, a good warrior, a solid provider and a good ally. The songs went on through the night as the funeral fire burned. Incacha chanted on to the peiweiya and the hekura spirits, keeping up the vigil with the other two shamans of the village, Berruwa and Heymacha.

Rerbawa was a young man of influence among the people. His father had been Kaoboci, a very prominent and respected headman in his day. He received two wives, one of which had been the youngest sister of Incacha himself. 

Enqueri had known Rerbawa. They had called one another friend and had shared hunting kills. They had traded smoked meats and talked over the evening fires while eating kareshi and yei. They had laughed together. Enqueri had known few joys in the village of the Brave Hill People. Incacha had been one of the only people that he would even communicate with for a very long time. He had kept himself separate and aloof, the large white man who was Haichathi. But Rerbawa had not let that be. 

First he had challenged the large white warrior, as was customary to appease the hekura of the village. He had stood before him with only a war club (He had no intention of killing the white man) and had pushed him on his chest and spoke into his face, a clear gesture of challenge. The white man stood confused until Incacha explained Rerbawa's intent. Then with no more effort than a jaguar would use to flick a fly from its back with its tail, the white man, Enqueri the Haichathi of the Brave Hill People, flicked Rerbawa to one side with one massive hand and forearm. The young warrior went sprawling to the ground, unhurt, undaunted, but mightily impressed. They were friends. 

The funeral fires burned some yards away from the village. The children and the sick were moved least the smoke came into the village to contaminate. The women moaned in grief. The men wiped tears and spoke of revenge. Enqueri was quiet. They knew the white warrior's mission, and they knew he would not deviate from it. He would be their Haichathi if they needed him. He never intended to fight in their wars, but he had already asked them to fight in his. It was only fair. 

At last, what had been Rerbawa had been rendered to ash, bits of bone and teeth. Incacha and the other shamans took this and crushed it till it was fine. All the while the women prepared a soup of ripe plantains. The remains of Rerbawa was placed in several hollow gourds, the soup was mixed with this until it became a dusky gray slurry that smelled sharp and sweetish at the same time. The gourds were passed out only to family and closest friends. 

Enqueri was surprised when he received his gourd, and it was not only just that he had received one but also how solemnly he received it. It had come to him from the hands of Rerbawa's favorite wife, immediately after all of the direct relatives had been served. This was a gesture of great respect. It meant that Enqueri was Rerbawa's first friend and therefore the first protector of his surviving family. 

The others drank, squatting in a circle, wailing and bemoaning their loss at the hands of an enemy. The women pulled at their hair and the men beat on their chest and thighs. All wept. 

Enqueri sat with them, eyes down cast. He had no tears. He had never learned to cry. His father had taught him that tears were a waste of time, and time was precious, never to be wasted. But Enqueri hurt like them, hurt inside, and longed to wail and scream. Instead, he drank his portion in silence. 

* * *

"Chief, these are human remains." 

* * *

* _Coffee and Sympathy_ * 

Within two hours we had a warrant and the warehouse was swarming with forensics teams and uniformed officers. It was completely roped off. The coroner's office sent a biohazard crew to help remove the barrels. Several samples were taken in and around them. 

I knew what I had tasted. 

"Human remains." Serena looked at me skeptically. I don't think she doubted that the ash was human remains. I think she was just wondering how I knew without the benefit of a chem lab and test. The powder was crushed too fine to just _know_ that what you were looking at was cremated human. She stuffed her hands back into her blazer pockets and looked over at Blair as if he was to blame for not keeping a better grip on my leash. "We'll know pretty soon if it isn't just any old animal remains at least. State crime lab will run for any remaining DNA. Doubt if there is enough to put in a microbe's handbag though. We'll see." 

She walked back to her vehicle just as Simon's pulled up onto the scene. Blair tapped my shoulder to get my attention. 

"I'm not sure I understand just how you knew that ash was human remains, but you know that I believe you." 

"I can't explain it now." 

"Well, I hope you can explain it soon. Simon's gonna want to know..." 

I brushed his comments aside with a wave of my hand just as Simon slammed his car door shut. He came about the car briskly, watching as the coroner's crew loaded the first barrel. He held a paper in his hand. He brandished it at us as he approached. 

"Well, that's it, gentlemen. This may officially become a mass murder investigation." He held out the paper for us to see. Blair took it from his hands and began to read. 

"The lab confirms that there is a 78.8% chance that the ash is organic animal matter and by the sheer volume of it, if it was human, it has to be more than one corpse," Simon continued. "In fact, the prediction states more than 15. The state crime lab is still working on pulling any usable DNA. If there was any bone or teeth in that ash that was just ground up and not burned, there is a chance." 

"Seems like a long shot," Blair muttered. 

"It's amazing that we were able to determine that the ash was animal at all," Simon replied to his comment. Then he looked to me, his eyes narrowing at me. "How did you know?" 

I didn't answer, at least not right away. I looked out in front of me at the dirty street. A rotten wood fence half conceals a salvage yard with a tangle of old tires and metal rusting slowly in the midday sun. The sky was clear and blue for now, but I could smell rain on the wind. It would be a downpour by sundown. Also on the wind I smelled stale beer and burnt cheese, probably coming up from the few bar-and-grills located further down the lane. Beyond that I smelled diesel and oil from the cranes near the shipyards at the industrial harbor. I tried not to smell the distant funeral fires. 

"I remembered." I said, but I'm not sure they heard me. It came out softer than I intended. 

"Now what the hell is that suppose to mean?" Simon nearly barked out at me. I knew he wasn't angry. He was just frustrated and concerned. This thing had just taken a horribly nasty turn into a truly major crime. 

I shook my head and looked at them. Both of them were just gawking at me with this slack-jawed look of concern as if I'd grown a third eye in my forehead. I wish they wouldn't do that. 

"I don't know." I said slowly and clearly. 

"We'll talk about this back at my office." Simon turned on his heels and marched back to his car. 

I had some explaining to do, but I really didn't know what to say. I didn't want to say anything. I wanted to go home and get a tall glass of milk and sit on the couch and watch the weather channel for a few hours. No ripples, no waves, no thinking, no feeling, no stress. 

I was pulling the truck into a parking space when Sandburg finally said something to me. I was expecting it sooner. He had been giving me those stupid little concerned glances all the way home, but this time I wasn't amused. However, the fact that he waited until this long showed that he had gained a considerable amount of patience and self-control since he met me. 

"What did you remember, Jim?" 

The sixty-four dollar question. And now that I was faced with it, I had too many clear and painful answers that I would've rather not have. Touching any of them would be unpredictable at best, explosive at worst. I tried to give him the broadest answer possible, something he just may understand but not enough that I had to cut too deep into myself. 

"Peru." 

I killed the engine and turned to him. In silence our eyes connected, and I knew what he was seeing and I wasn't sure I liked it. I felt old and used up right then, and I didn't want him to see me that way. 

"We can talk about this later... when you're ready." He said softly. He expects the same kind of honesty from me that I get from him but it is so much harder for me. And yet, I knew he knew more from just looking in my eyes than I will ever tell Simon, or anyone else for that matter. 

We went into headquarters. 

Simon's office smelled of freshly brewed coffee. In its own way it is a calming smell. Simon uses coffee as comfort food for his detectives. This time it was a hazelnut roast. The sweet and tangy aroma moved through the air like a circling mist of flavor. I would not have preferred a specialty coffee at that moment, but, if it had to be, hazelnut was not a bad choice. 

We didn't even stop at the landfill we call our desk; we just made a line straight to Simon's office. He was waiting with two cups of coffee already drawn up. I took my cup and took a seat as Blair dove for the sugar. He looked back to offer me some, but I declined. I doubted I'd even drink the stuff. I just wanted to smell it for a while. 

Simon leaned on the edge of his desk looking down on both of us. I knew that by now, this whole case has sunk into his skin, and he was no longer as frustrated as he was before. I hate to say this about the man. I think he's a fine commander and a good friend. I hold him in the highest regard, but Simon Banks could appear at times to be a bit of a scattershot. He was the kind of person that when hit with a crisis, he looks on the verge of losing it, but, in reality, he is the most cool and controlled person in the room. It was just his initial reaction, which often seemed scattered and unprepared, that threw you. 

"If the crime lab comes back with anything, we'll have to match it with a known missing person to get the murder charge to stick on anyone at this time," Simon began. "If anything, this is still an illegal disposal of medical waste... If it turns out to just be biohazard material from a local hospital. All the same, I think we need to take the next step in your investigation." 

I, for one, was glad that he had moved past the 'how'd you know it was human remains' thing and on to more practical matters. 

"Now I've read what you've sent me thus far for the warrant justification... By the way, Sandburg, you were right. There is no Marcus Junius. It was a fake name and a faked credit record. But there seems to be a connection between this warehouse and the name you got. We need to find this Brutus and find out what his game is." 

"I have an idea, Simon," Blair spoke up from his coffee. 

I was cringing inside. God no, not the undercover thing again. I just knew that was what he was going to suggest, but I kept my mouth shut. There was no way Simon would buy it. 

"I thought if I went in as a homeless man, maybe with a problem, a mental health issue or something, I could look like I'm working the strip. Maybe get close to someone who knows Brutus. Find out what his offer is. Get connected?" 

Simon looked at him grimly. "How do you plan to get in?" 

Blair sat up in his seat and clears his throat. His mind was probably moving a mile a minute now. I mentioned once before that he thinks well on his feet. Here is a prime example, for I was sure that this was all rolling right off the top of his head. 

"Well... um... I could put myself on the strip, tell people that I'm up from Portland. My family ran outta money to keep me under the rug.... Ah... play it like I'm a typical hustler looking for some quick cash to buy some rock or some ice. Hang at the shelters.... And... and every night, we can have a different unmarked pick me up and make it look like johns. In the morning they can just drop me near the Outreach center. We can set it up with Charlie and Andy to make it look like I'm a resident." 

Not bad really. But I still didn't like it. In an ideal inside surveillance situation, it is best to set yourself up within the suspect's ring of trusted individuals. Get in, get evidence, get out. What Blair was suggesting was more like setting himself up as bait. That was not an ideal undercover operation. It was more like a vice sting. It's easy to fall within the dangerous domain of entrapment when moving in that direction. Also it is highly unpredictable and hard to keep under control for the officer going in. Simon would never go for a set-up like that in a million years. 

"You know, Sandburg, it sounds good." Simon looked keenly interested. "Keep it vague and simple on the story going in. Don't get too complex, that's what kills a lot of covers, but I think you've learned that one over the years." 

He was serious. He was totally serious. He was actually considering Blair's cover. 

"I thought it would be more authentic if I actually arrived at the bus terminal on the Portland to Seattle bus.... You know, pick it up just outside of Olympia.... Hit the strip like a proper refugee," Blair shrugged. 

"A little over the top, Sandburg," Simon said. "But let's work out the logistics on the pick ups." 

"Yeah, those serve a dual purpose." He was so excited then that I think he'd even forgotten that I was in the room. "They provide proof of my legitimacy as a hustler, and they get me off the strip before any real john can blow my cover." 

"Can you hang with the gay-thing though?" Simon asked solemnly. 

"It's not actually a matter of homosexuality, Simon. Although, studies show that a majority of male prostitutes tend to be homosexual or at least bi, they all do it from necessity. Most are out there as teen and preteen runaways kicked out of their home due to their sexuality. A lot wind up dead before age thirty." 

I should've chimed in and reminded him that by that standard, he was a bit long in the tooth as street twinks go. 

"Okay, okay, Sandburg." Simon waved his hands in front of himself to fend off a sociology lecture from the professor. "Lets get a time frame and work the logistics with the pool in the bullpen." 

I was not so dumb struck that I wasn't going to object. "Wait a minute, Simon. You are really going to send him in like that?" 

Simon turned to me and shrugged. "You gotta better idea?" 

Like an idiot, I hesitated. While I sputtered over alternatives, Simon jumped on my indecision. 

"Look, Jim, I have two barrels of burnt biohazard that could be twelve dead bodies, a missing manic depressive socialite, and a rabid City Prosecutor who's suddenly found her maternal instinct. We need answers here." 

"I know, Simon." I didn't know what the hell to say to stop this train wreck. "I just don't think sticking Sandburg...." 

"He's not a civilian anymore, Jim." Simon's tone was loud hard and final. He didn't say the rest and he didn't have to. It was already playing in my mind. 

_Cut the umbilical cord and cut the shit, Ellison and get your goddamn head out your ass. Sandburg is a cop, like you are a cop. He's not some lily-handed academic that you need to push behind you and tell to stay in the car. It's time to let him be a cop._

I stood up from my chair and left my untasted coffee sitting on the edge of Simon's desk. I was lurching out of the door and back towards my desk in a full-blown snit when I heard Simon say: 

"You stay in here, Sandburg." 

Obviously Simon had something to discuss with Sandburg that didn't require my presence so I settled myself in my chair and pulled up the missing persons files on the vagrants to look them over for anything more I could glean. A serious waste of time, really, but it made me look busy. 

Yes, I was listening. I was keeping my eye on the computer screen though. If Blair saw me looking, he'd know I was listening and the blinds to Simon's office's side windows were open. 

Simon's voice was flat but serious. "What's wrong with him?" 

Blair hesitated, took a breath, and then didn't use it. I hate it when he does that. I heard the coffee mug scrape the table. "He's adjusting. Don't worry, Simon." 

There was a big long pause and I wondered if they were just staring at me then. I tried to catch a glimpse with my peripheral vision, but I just couldn't. I guess there are some things a Sentinel just can't do. 

"He looked a bit worn at back at that warehouse. He hasn't been over doing it, has he?" Simon's concern was touching because I knew that it was more than a boss' concern about a workers ability to be productive. 

"No.... I don't think so." Then Blair stopped, and he took this big pause. I didn't hear a pen scratching on paper so I knew he was not writing whatever was on his mind down. Suspicious jerk that I am, I could imagine him doing something like that, knowing that I could hear them in there. 

"I think.... I think he may have had a memory recall." Blair's tone sounded kind of cautious. "I think tasting the ashes brought some memory to the surface and...." 

"He tasted them?!" Simon's shock was understandable. Ever since the senses came online, I've tasted a few things I would have never even considered putting anywhere near my mouth before. 

"Yeah," Blair replied in this flat tone that was kind of like a 'so, what?' 

"Geeze!" I could just see the disgusted expression on Simon's face. 

"He mentioned remembering Peru," Sandburg continued. 

Silence again. I guess it was sinking in. Then Simon said, "All of it?" 

"I don't know," Blair replied. "That would be a lot of shit to carry in such a brief moment. I don't know. I'm not a psychologist, but I don't think it would happen that way." 

"You think he needs some time off?" 

"I don't know, Simon. Maybe you should ask him," Blair sighed. "I think he's dealing with whatever it is right now." 

"So tasting ashes reminded him of Peru?" 

"I asked him how he knew it was human remains," Blair explained. "It's really quite logical, Simon. There are a few tribes in Columbia, Peru and Ecuador that practice Endocannibalism. The Yanomamo, the Amahuaca, and the Chopec...." 

"Are you telling me that he may have been part of some Cannibalistic ritual while he was in the jungle?" Simon's voice was hushed, but I could still hear the alarm. 

"It not like what you are thinking, Simon." Blair's voice was calming, placating. "These cultures sometimes believe that by consuming a portion of a dead loved-one, that the person then lives on in you. For example, the Yanomamo cremate their dead in the hollowed trunks of dead trees. The ashes are scraped and pounded by the elder male relatives of the deceased to grind up any remaining bones and teeth. Family and friends are then invited to eat a portion of the decease's ashes mixed in a kind of soup, in a mourning ritual. This ritual is pretty much part and parcel of the kind of rites of the dead for South American endocannibalism." 

More silence once he'd finished. Now I knew that Blair understood just what I meant when I spoke to him in the truck. 

"More than likely, during his eighteen months, he was exposed to this rite. As the tribal Sentinel, he may have been deemed important as a political ally and therefore was invited as a family friend to an important tribal member's funeral." 

"And he ate the dead." Simon said softly. 

"As a sentinel," Blair continued dispassionately. "His sensory memory would be able to catalogue the taste of burnt human remains so that if he tasted it again, he could recognize it. Everything has a specific signature taste to it, including ashes, and you know that the human body is normally never completely consumed in a typical fire." 

"That's what we are banking on to get some usable DNA for identification." But Simon's tone was skeptical. "It's a big long shot." The coffee mug scraped the table again. Simon's tone got stronger, more affirmative. "Take your partner home and see if you can get him to rest. I hate it when he gets like this. We'll talk about the cover operation after the lab comes back on the ashes." 

He hates it when I get like this? I hate it when he gets like that about me getting like this! Sometimes Simon treats me like the fine china: important, impressive but fragile. There was nothing wrong with me. 

Then I remembered the look in Rerbawa's widow's eyes. 

* * *

My life in anecdotes would make a great novel. Even without the senses, I have all the intrigue of a circus sideshow. I spent eighteen months in a jungle, making important strategic intelligence, securing a vital piece of real estate, working in cooperation with an indigenous friendly contact and what do I remember of it all? Not a whole helluva lot. 

It has always come to me in flashes: bits of sounds, words, smells, ordinary things about me could make me remember, like the smell of the earth for some reason always brought me back to the wide Rio Napo and the small hunting parties meeting on the north shore. It was a staging area for the hunt where the shamans chanted the invocations to the hekura for good fortune and to the peiweiya for mercy. I remember Incacha's voiced raised in that familiar chant. When it was finished he would turn to me and say: 

"Now, Enqueri, listen for us." 

That was my first job, to listen for the sounds of the forest animals to find a direction that was best suited for prey capture. Once I figured a direction, I could catch a scent on the wind. But I cannot remember one single hunt, just the chant and the anticipation. 

Where did I sleep? What did I eat? How did I come to learn Quencha? Who found me? Was it Incacha? 

Until I tasted the ashes, I had never had such a complete and vivid memory of my life back then. It's not like in the movies where everything plays back for you nice and slow. It came all at once. I knew the whole of it within a split second, as if it had always been right there, on the surface waiting. 

I was tired, but I didn't let Blair convince me that I needed to go home. He didn't pester me about it. He didn't ask me another thing about it. I was almost mad about that, like I was upset that he wasn't paying attention to me and my life for once. He wasn't demanding his birthright. 

Then one evening a few days later as we sat down to dinner at Fat Johnny's, they had just brought out his blacked Catfish and put down a platter of Jambalaya in front of me. He took a moment to take an exaggerated long dramatic sniff of his fish as if it were a bouquet of roses. The he takes the first bite. 

"Mmmmm.... This always reminds me of visiting my Aunt Emma in Santa Fe.... Well, she wasn't really my aunt, she was just an artist friend of my mom and they just let me call her aunt Em.... Yeah, I have an auntie Em.... She made the best Cajun...." 

"You speak of her in the past tense," I observed. 

"Yeah." And he looked grave and maybe a bit sad. He looked me straight in the eye like he sometimes does, and I got what he was driving at. 

"It's okay, Jim. It's safe to remember." He was still looking me directly in the eyes. "...When you are ready," he added. 

For a moment there was silence and sympathy between us. I knew he would never dig at a memory that he thought was too painful for me to handle... at least not until I was ready. At that moment, I felt grateful to him. 

My eyes went back down to my heaping plate of jambalaya. He was quiet for a time. I could still feel his eyes on me. I put my focus on the food as my body tried to react to his attention. 

* * *

Four days later in Simon's office Serena announced, "They found DNA. The ashes are human remains." 

"Any hope of matching?" Simon asked 

She shook her head. "Simon, what we have is very partial. Fire doesn't leave much. And, on top of that, only a few of your vagrants have anything on file to crossmatch to. However, on a positive note, It looks as if who ever did this did not use a standard cremation furnace." 

"How can you tell?" Blair asked. 

"Standard cremation furnace gets to about 1600 degrees Fahrenheit. A body is placed inside for about two hours until it is reduced to carbon, calcium carbonate and some bone fragment. These remains were not treated in the same manner. The furnace could not have been higher than 1200 degrees and the powder is more the result of grinding than from conflagration. There was a lot more organic molecules left intact than we had first thought. But even as much as we got, it still isn't enough." 

"We know it is human." Simon looked at her critically. 

"That's from only the most basic genetic marker test. Specifics on the DNA may never be possible to retrieve. It's like the problem we have with dried blood that is years old," she shrugged. 

"What do we do now?" Blair looked from me to Simon. I already knew what Simon was going to say, and I was dreading it. 

"Let go forward with this investigation. Serena, see if the state crime lab can do anything more with the DNA found. If we can crossmatch, then let's do it. We need answers. In the meantime, we do have a felony on our hands. Illegal dumping of medical waste carries a five-year jail sentence and a fifty-thousand dollar fine. Blair, Jim, set up the cover operation." 

I didn't shake my head. I didn't roll my eyes. I kept the cuss words to myself. I looked over at Blair, I expected him to be dancing in his pants with excitement like he use to do when he was just a civilian observer, and we entrusted him with a role to play in a undercover operation. But he wasn't. He looked quite sober, in fact. 

"I want this to be a clean observation cover," Simon said. "Don't get in too deep. If you make contact with Brutus, I want you to wait before you let him pull you in, Sandburg. Do I make myself clear?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Make a pick-up schedule. I want you out there before the weekend." 

Harsh. We would be busy all weekend. I hoped he didn't have any dates planned. 

* _Watching the Watcher_ * 

When a scientist makes an experiment model or an architect makes a design that is both simple and functional, people call it an elegant design. There are elegant designs in police work as well. In a cover operation, and elegant design is one in which an officer can slip in and out of a surveillance situation, interact with both suspects and possible witnesses, gather vital intelligence to build a substantial case without causing a single ripple on any of the subjects lives. Blair had proposed something close to an elegant design. The more I came to grips with it the more I saw all its virtues. It was up to him and his back-up to make the whole thing run seamlessly. 

First we gathered up the team for logistics. There had to be pick-up and drop offs, and they had to be varying, but we still managed to make up a target time table. Blair made out a meticulous schedule and turned it into Simon who, in turn, gave it back to him. 

"You are building a surveillance protocol, not making a 10 week course syllabus, Sandburg. Cut it back." 

Another opportunity to say 'I told you so' wasted. 

Friday, early evening, he hit the streets. Scruffy, and far from neatly shaved, he was wearing his most threadbare, ripped jeans and tied about his waist was an old flannel that had seen better days. The tee shirt he was wearing was one of my old ones. It was one that I had recently adopted as a dusting rag. He salvaged it, claming it was only slightly ripped. 

I had to admit, even though he lacked that emaciated addict look, he did look like something the streets coughed up. In addition, he managed a bit of a nervous look that made him seem either in withdrawal or insane. His angle was both. As Simon advised, he was to keep it simple, not talk too much about personal habits, just hint at an addiction maybe. We decided on crack and crystal meth. It was easiest addiction to hide the evidence. 

He pulled out his older frayed backpack that he just couldn't bear to part with after I bought him a new one for Hanukah. He said the thing was like an old friend. At least it was coming in handy now. One of its side pockets held his handcuffs and the spare clip to the thirty-eight that was strapped to his ankle. The main compartment carried things that one would expect in a homeless man's pack, old clothes, a few personal items, some well used drug paraphernalia we were able to get from evidence lock up. 

He started his cover discreetly, moving up and down the streets of Southtown wandering between the streets and ally ways near the medical center and skirting the edge of the strip. Panhandling was more likely normal near the medical center than anywhere else in Southtown. There were two main places in the city that the beggars concentrated their efforts, which were the University and the Medical Center. I didn't want Blair anywhere near the University even though the campus area bordered the side of Southtown that was closest to the strip. He obliged my request. 

Like other resourceful homeless, he found a decent size piece of cardboard, just right for a sign. Writing instruments are easy to find if you think about it. His solution was a bank. I watched him carefully as he made his nervous, twitchy way in. The guards watched him like pitbulls eyeing a poodle. The other bank customers skirted out of his way and gave him a wide berth as if he smelled. I knew for a fact that he did not smell that strongly that day. It was mostly their perception of his condition. He left quickly before one of the security guards could have the pleasure of escorting him in what I was sure would be a humiliating and uncomfortable fashion. I have to admit I was a little nervous for him. 

So he was back on the streets and he ambled his way towards the Medical Center. His cardboard sign was folded once, and he was carrying it in his hands. I could not see what it said. 

We agreed that he should steer clear on the Ninth Street Outreach center. He didn't want to over play his presence there. There was another soup kitchen just as close to the strip, the Men's Union Mission House. Being a men-only facility, the customers where a little rougher there, but that was only to our advantage. 

Once he reached North Block Street and Wiltshire Blvd., he took a position on a corner near the lamppost and unfolded his sign. 

'Homeless-- Factory moved overseas. Lost my job. Can you help? Thank you.' 

I watched him from a quarter mile away, far from where any one would watch someone. I had no binoculars. He was not wired. I wanted to be closer, but I knew he was in no immediate danger. I was sitting in the truck in a parking lot across from a Captain Fry's Fish shoppe and Hogan's certified pre-owned cars (okay, when did it become so trendy to call used cars 'certified pre-owned cars.' They are used cars. And this lot is full of the rustiest pieces of junk on wheels I've ever seen.) 

I watched him as he interacted with passers by asking for spare change. Another man approached him, a tall lanky African American male. They talked for a while, the other man with quick short hand gestures. I could have piggybacked hearing to sight and listen in, but they seemed pretty casual. I decided to ask him later during our brief meet up before he moved on to the strip. Still, I kept a close eye on him. 

He spent a good hour on the street begging before he headed inward towards Southtown. I never let him out of my sight, trailing him at a discreet distance. On Lock street, he window shopped at the pawn shops, just something to pass the time. It was almost time for him to check into the mission. 

At eight PM he headed for the Mission House. I parked across the street and watched him as he pushed his way into the large old storefront with a crumbling brick faade. I piggybacked hearing to sight as I looked in through the propped open doorway. Dinner was being served and the hushed buzz that was filling the room was not conversation for the most part, but more along the lines of tired groans, moans, coughs, sniffing and shuffling. Blair's voice stood out as he muttered a thank you to a food service volunteer. Then later he struck up small talk with a man with a thick voice. From the sound of the conversation and the references to earlier that day, this must be the same man Blair had talked to earlier. His name was Bill, and he was a disabled veteran who has been begging the corner of North Block Street and Wiltshire Blvd. for quite some time. He seemed happy to impart helpful hints to Blair on successful panhandling in these parts. Blair made himself sound like a young inexperienced man, willing to be mentored. However, he did carefully make mention of his little drug habit cover by suggesting to Bill that if he knew where they could 'score' a 'hit' he would gladly share what he could buy with this afternoon's take. 

Bill made a few suggestions, but his tone, on the whole, seemed uninterested. Blair dropped the subject in time. 

Dinner was over, and Blair didn't hang around. We had to meet soon to coordinate the evening. He would be out until at least 2 AM; Possibly later. His main objective that night was to just mingle in and get to know a few faces. He was supposed to be listening but not asking questions yet. These things take time. You just can't walk into an undercover operation and start asking questions right away. That will peg you out, if not as a cop, then at least as some sort of troublemaker. We needed to set the foundation first. 

It was close to nine thirty when he met me at the small convenience store on Ninth Street and Triabue. We made our separate ways to the back of the store where the glass front freezers are. In front of a cooler full of single pints of ice cream was our meeting place. 

"Having any trouble?" I muttered into the shelving unit in front of me. I perused the aspirin intently, trying to look casual. 

"Not really," he replied from over my right shoulder. "Just trying to ease into the community." 

"Who was the tall guy on the corner?" 

"Ah! Bill," he chuckled. "Sort of the unofficial Union Mission welcome wagon. Wanted to know my story. Had helpful hints on how to get people to stop.... How to avoid the cops." 

It figured, but I found it refreshing to know that there were still people willing to help others. Who am I fooling? There had to be an ulterior motive. For then, we had to look at Bill as a social-in and a potential source of information. 

"You think we can get anything useful from him?" 

Blair hesitated, and I heard the door of the cooler behind us open. A young girl had managed to step undetected over to the ice cream freezer and was looking through the Ben & Jerry's. How did I miss her approach? She was wearing enough Eternity to knock down a bull elephant and the jewelry jingle sounded like a bell chorus. I must have been focusing too tightly on Sandburg. 

She brushed past Blair and me in the narrow aisle way griping a small pint tub of Cherries Garciea. She gave Blair a cute little flirty smile. 

Blair beamed back at her, totally in tuned to the flirt. 

"Focus, Chief." I didn't intend to let that come out in the manner in which it did, but it came out in a sour growl. I must have sounded like a pathetic old loser who couldn't stand the fact that his partner is young, handsome, and charismatic... even when he looks like a walking rat's nest. 

"Yeah," he reluctantly pulled his attention back to me. I felt a flush of stupid irrational anger run quickly through my system. Fortunately I could push it aside as I realized just how silly it was. 

"Okay... yeah, Bill.... He's been around for a while. I should be able to get some good information from him." 

"What about the strip?" 

"I haven't met anyone who works that way yet. Let see what I can come up with tonight?" 

"Okay," I agreed. I knew I didn't have to remind him, but I said it anyway. "I'll be real close by, Chief. You know what to do." 

We broke off the conversation there. He went up front to pay for the pack of condoms he picked up as he was talking with me. I turned around and turn my attention to the ice cream cooler. Oh yeah, straight-up vanilla! 

* * *

The side of the strip in Southtown that we were concentrating on is about a half mile of shops and bars and rundown storefronts. It is far from pretty and not even remotely close to safe. Down this end is where the desperate cruise the streets looking for a fix and the bars are frequented by some of the less-proud of Cascade's gay community. 

The Powder Keg, The Plugged Nickel, the GrapeVine were just a few of these seedy underground bars, nothing like the upscale and stylish gay night clubs just north of downtown, off of the gallery district. Up this side of the strip, the prostitutes working the side streets and corners are called street twinks, hustlers, or rent boys. Like their female counterparts more westward down the strip, they came in all varieties but rarely did they come in an age over twenty-five. 

Jeff Cook was a frequent patron of some of these establishments. His rap sheet from vice had him guilty of trying to solicit prostitution twice in this area: once on Polk Street, a small side street next to the GrapeVine and again out front of the Powder Keg at closing time. At twenty-seven, even Jeff was starting to be a less desirable product for the 'chicken-hawks' who preferred young boys. 

Blair entered the Powder Keg at half past nine, pausing at the door for the bouncer who I would assume was checking IDs. However, when Blair told him that he didn't have one on him right at the moment, the big lummox looked him over and then thumbed him in. I had two words for that loser: Liquor license. 

Wasn't my concern right then really, but I could have reported them to liquor control for not checking. Didn't matter that Blair was way 'of age. ' There was no cover to get into dives like the Powder Keg. If there was a cover, the younger street junkies looking to make money off of doing tricks in the alleys wouldn't come here. But the real high rollers, 'the chicken hawks' as they are called, don't come cruisin' till later. They rarely went inside. 

Blair was in just to make appearances. This was still the establishing of his cover. I followed him with both my sight and my hearing. Even over the muffled beat of a poor quality jukebox, I could distinguish the sound of his shuffling step. I was glad that it was early enough in the summer not to be too hot or too cold. The bars and small clubs had started leaving their doors wide open instead of wasting money on AC yet. That made it a little easier for me. 

I was parked across the street, but not directly. I was in the parking lot of the stop-n-shop. Even at this hour, the streets were full of people, mostly men and mostly young. Kids. They were hanging out on the corners and at the steps of abandoned storefronts. They were in small clusters, almost all of them smoking. Their clothing, in keeping with the latest fashions, looked worn and baggy. I wouldn't doubt that most of these are the real street twinks and rent boys. Too young to go into the clubs and not looking for that kind of trouble; they just cruise around them, orbiting like little sex satellites. Waiting for the chicken hawks to emerge. 

I was so focused on what Blair was sounding like that I didn't even notice when one of the young men approached the passenger side of the truck. He must have been trying to get my attention for a bit. I was startled out of a zone out by a loud belligerent "Hey!" 

I turned to see a young man; it was hard to really pinpoint his age. He was thin, and he had the kind of features that people ascribe to the pretty. His eyes were large in a way-too-young-looking face and his hair was dark brown. It flopped carelessly into his eyes. If you held me down to guessing an age, I would probably say seventeen. 

"Hey!" The young man had my attention now. "You looking for someone?" 

I stared at him. He stared at me. He sniffed softly and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Believe it or not, on him, it was a somewhat of an endearing gesture and worked well with his young boy look. But I must have been staring at him like he was speaking Japanese. 

He looks around. "You need help tonight?" Then he gave me the bedroom eyes with his lips slightly parted. 

He thought I was an early chicken hawk and the hustle was on. Good try kid but no thanks. 

"I have someone specific in mind." I've learned from my time in Vice that that line works best to fend off the hookers. They usually try once more, then get offended, throw a few insults at you and move on. 

"Oh." The kid breathed out. He looked a little at a loss. I don't think he was used to being turned down, and he didn't know what to do with it. "Hey, if he doesn't show, I'm right over there." He pointed to a dark doorway of a closed storefront where two other young men stood, lit cigarettes in their hands. 

He looked me over one last time, and I wondered if it was lust I saw in his eyes. I had to be wrong. What did Sandburg say: It's not actually a matter of sexuality. They all do it from necessity. But I'm sure I saw want in those dark eyes. 

Want? Me? 

I guess it is stupid of me to pretend I'm nothing another warm body wouldn't want. I have known that various women have found me attractive. I do remember the very smell and taste of desire. My problem is that I am not my type. What I mean is, I don't know what it is that these people see in me. I'm just a lug-head like a million other lug-heads walking around. I am an overgrown lummox with a receding hair line. 

I've been told that I am handsome. But I know for a fact that I am not pretty, not by any stretch of the word. There are guys that are pretty, and there are different types of pretty. Take my brother Steven, for example. He is pretty in that tooth paste and deodorant commercial kind of way. And that kid, he was pretty. He had that little-boy-lost quality with a touch of a devious twinkle in his eyes. 

Of course, Blair is pretty. He has that girl-charming quality that some men have. It's tied up somewhere between a smile and sincerity. It's this non-threatening thing that some girls label as sensitive and other girls label as gentlemanly while others still label as geek. In my opinion, it is just hard to pin down. All I know is that he has it, and they see it. It took me a while to see it too, but I do now. When I first met him, he seemed to me quirky and strange. I would not have called him good looking at all. He grew on me over time till I wondered how some people I have met could not see his obvious looks and appeal. 

Simon, for example, still thinks he's a pie-faced hairball. That is a very unfair judgment, in my opinion. First of all, Blair isn't really what I would call a 'pie-face'. Secondly... well... never mind. When I set out to write this memoir it was never meant to examine my particular feelings about my partner. But more and more, I find that I can't seem to stop. 

I guess I have to remember that what makes a memoir is memories and everything that memories are made of, including emotions and impressions. I think that for a very long time, I sort of saw him like a pet. I fed him and watered him and potty trained him down to what I felt was perfectly acceptable behavior. What I didn't realize, like many pet owners will tell you, was that while I was training him, he was training me. ... And I don't mean the Sentinel bull. I mean like helping me face fears I never even knew I had, see things I never thought about seeing, knowing things I never thought I needed to know. I've heard people talk about things like this before when they stop seeing the world through there own dreary, jaded view and start seeing it through someone else's eyes, eyes that are excited and alive and ready to take chances. 

I think that part of me kept him around so long because of that new and refreshing view. Another part just wanted these damned senses under complete control. After the dissertation mess, I began to see just how weary and jaded my partner's eyes had become. That is why I thought that I had worn him down. 

Stupid of me to think that. Now that I remember how excited he looked when he spoke to Simon about this cover. It was all there in his eyes. And when I told him that he could continue to study my senses. It was there in his eyes... And in his smell. 

Full circle. We are back on the subject of desire. Bet ya thought I was just rambling. 

The evening was fairly uneventful, even when a yelling match spilled into the streets from another bar across the way. Nothing came of it. I listened for Blair. He didn't speak much. Mostly he sat on a stool at the bar within eyeshot of the door and let patrons approach him. One guy I was certain was going to solicit sex, but he seemed to change his mind and just chatted at him them moved on. At the appointed hour he moved out of the bar and into the street, just standing with his back against the wall. Not much happened for a long while till a dark gray sedan rolled up in front of him and stopped. The automatic window rolled down and a voice spoke to him over loud A/C. 

"Hey, you gonna stand there all night or are you gonna earn a paycheck?" 

Blair approached the car and spoke in a hushed tone. "Shut up, Brown. Do you have to make a scene wherever you go?" 

"It's called making an entrance, college boy... And yes... yes, I do." 

With that, Blair slipped into the car, and Brown pulled off heading back to HQ. I gave them a five-minute head start before I pulled out to. 

From the shadow of the doorway to an empty storefront, I saw a pair of eyes watch me leave. There was still desire in them. 

* _"Like Break Dancing on a Tightrope"_ * 

A normal cover operation can run on average 6 to 12 weeks depending on the subject matter. Sandburg should have thanked his lucky stars that Kiatan didn't push the point with him starting in Narcotics. Their cover operations can run eighteen months or more. Blair's experiences of cover with me as a civilian observer was, in retrospect, pretty superficial. It seemed big to him at the time, but really. The setups and the infiltration never took the sheer weeks that other operations can take, and we usually got results pretty quick. 

But this was real cover. It was long and frustrating and uncomfortable as you kept up a facade of being someone you were not. It was week two, and I could tell he was heartily tired of it. He had been spending about two or three nights at the shelter. And on the nights that he "worked the streets," he was usually picked up on the strip by one of the spares in the bullpen; they'd worked out some sort of rotating schedule. I know he was pretty shocked one night to find that the figure behind the wheel and under the ball cap was Megan. She made some cute remark about him shaking the moneymaker her way. He made a face at her and got in. 

Over those past few weeks, he had made a few acquaintances. A few of them had been what I would call possible pay-dirt, and a few I would have lumped under the category ' a waste of space.' Only he wouldn't cut the waste ones loose. I think that deep inside of him, that moral conscience was still working hard. He wanted to save the world. I just wanted to keep the streets of Cascade safe. Somewhere, we had to meet in the middle. 

My part of the cover was simple. My story was that I was a particular regular of his who was also his supplier for crystal meth. So far the story had held up against scrutiny. 

Now here is the stark reality of police work. Unlike on TV where cops go under cover in the first ten minutes of the show and have an arrest by minute fifty-five, police work is boring and tedious and takes a shit-load of patience. Most of my time has been spent observing him, and let me tell you, over those two weeks, I had had some of the most boring ten-hour days you could imagine, and they still were not the most boring workdays of my career. 

As for Blair? It was wearing on him. I could tell. He was tired of going in and being someone he was not all day long. Apparently I've trained him too well in the hygiene department. He was loathed to be un-shaven and un-showered at that point. Whereas before, when I met him, if he skipped a day without a shower, I don't think it bugged him too much. 

The hair was hanging in his eyes, and it bothered him. The dirty, threadbare clothing was chafing him in the increasing summer heat. The stubble that had to wait a day or two before he could get to a razor was itching the hell out of him. But more than that was the ticks and the twitches and the nervousness that was feigned insanity. It was the keeping a straight story and avoiding proving anything to anybody. These things were stressing him probably the most. 

Police work is not easy. It is a lot of stress. But contrary to popular belief, the pressure isn't always about the danger. There is the physiological stress of having your work depend on a carefully set up string of lies. It really isn't as easy as TV shows make it look. 

But Blair had woven himself into the homeless society quite well. I really didn't want him to spend so much of his time on the male prostitute angle of the cover, but I must admit he was pulling the whole thing off quite well. Besides, the long and short of it was that we were out there to investigate the disappearance of Jeff Cook. Jeff Cook was a hustler. And as Sandburg stated before, Jeff Cook was man of wealth and connections whose family had pull enough to mobilize the police. 

Just who was Brutus? Well, from what I could tell from the information we had gathered, Brutus was just one of the many cons and opportunists looking to exploit people who were down on their luck. There are plenty of those kinds out there. I knew about a few, but I never suspected how many there really were. Most of that activity was centered on the side of Southtown bordered by the University district. There were always a lot of flyers going around: Earn fifty dollars a day for being a subject in a study. Twenty-five dollars for blood plasma. Short answer survey, earn twenty dollars. 

Most of them are legitimate researchers from Rainer, mostly from the school of psychology, looking for a wider diversity in their test subjects. After all, college students tend only to be eighteen to twenty-two. The homeless normally are fifteen to fifty. However, most of the research project required no drugs or alcohol. That was not an easy request for most of Cascade's homeless. 

A few of the opportunists were not so legit in their pursuits of cheap labor, but there really wasn't anything illegal in their solicitations. These were some of the inland growers looking for help to supplement the migrant workers they had already. And a few were warehouse and dock works looking to supplement big shipment days. It usually added up to two or three days work for those willing and able to do it. And, while hope is still springing, maybe it could turn into a permanent job. Dock work was hard to break into, though. The longshoreman's union was too strong; so what usually happened was that these extra people got a day or two of work and then got rushed out before a shop steward became wise to it. 

Then there were the out right illegal opportunists. These were the street thugs who hired the homeless to be mules for their drugs or use them as human shields for their top men. Or they would employ the homeless as lookouts for cops or rival gangs. 

Brutus fell somewhere in the second group. From what little information we had gathered, Brutus was neither a part of a gang or drug supplier, nor was he associated with the university. But in a sense, he was a hybrid from all accounts. What he wanted seemed to run towards the kinds of medical and psychological research that the university departments desired, and yet he had no conditions. Drugs or alcohol seemed not to be a problem with him. He was specific, however that his employees be over the age of twenty-one and under the age of fifty. 

In the beginning, Brutus was this amorphous legend that everyone had heard of and no one had seen. Then later, as Blair began to gain the trust of more of his fellow vagrants, the story of Brutus began to take shape. He seemed to be everywhere in Southtown but his favorite place to recruit was just off Bridge Street, where under the viaduct was a major stronghold of the homeless. The boxes and fire barrels that line the support wall and chain-link fence are evidence to that. 

He was present on the strip, avoiding the young boys and going for the men, the ones for whom time was running out. His offer was the same. Warm body for cash. What was it that he looking for? No one had specifics. All they knew was it was probably some medical thing, some experimental drug or why else would he offer so much so soon. 

The price: one grand. 

It was an offer very few could refuse and very few did right away at first. That kind of money attracted them all: from the desperate to the low-wage workers. However, after a time, the numbers of willing applicants thinned. People became wary after one too many of their friends and acquaintances disappeared began to disappear. After that, the name of Brutus became something synonymous with big-gamble. People were less likely to put their lives out there on a whim. I couldn't blame them. People tend to put a higher price on their life than one thousand dollars... Unless they are drunk... or stupid... or desperate. 

After about two and a half weeks of hanging on the strip, I guess Blair looked desperate enough. It was the Powder Keg's big lummox of a bouncer whom I had lovingly nicknamed Block for the unique shape of his head and the lack of contents therein, who approached him first. It was one of the few nights that I was actually inside the Powder Keg nursing a beer and playing the watchful chicken hawk. 

I didn't listen closely to the conversation. My mistake. Complacency has its price. It is one of the many setbacks of cover. After you've been out there for a while, there is a tendency to gloss over things that on the surface seem pretty every-day. 

To make a long story short, I didn't find out about the approach until later that evening, about two AM. 

Blair came home and went straight for the shower. It was becoming his routine during the evenings he was home. It was like he couldn't wash the grime from the streets off himself fast enough. I could empathize. 

He came out of the shower damp and with an expression on his face that I can only describe as distracted. He was in an old pair of shorts, and he was toweling his hair dry, slowly making his way to his bedroom. 

"Who did the pick-up tonight?" I mumbled around a mouthful of popcorn. I was watching a Clint Eastwood movie called The Eiger Sanction and the sound was down to the first setting, far too low for him to hear as he slept. 

"Mark Donnell. This was his third rotation.... Has it been that long?" He plopped down beside on the couch. 

"It'll be three weeks on Friday," I answered. 

"Damn." He scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin that he couldn't shave off just yet. 

"Gettin' to ya, Chief?" 

"A little. It's like break dancing on a tightrope. You gotta be out there. You gotta make yourself visible, but one false move and swoosh! Off the rope you go. Then to top it off, it's hard trying to keep up a front that makes big ugly men come on to you," he said as he leaned back on the couch, letting his head fall back on the cushions. 

"Who tried to pick you up now?" I couldn't help the little snort of laughter that came out with that question. 

"Greg the bouncer," he sighed. "He wouldn't leave me alone." 

"I saw him talking at you. Was it that bad?" 

His head flopped in my direction. His expression was fatigued. "The man has the looks of a bonobo and the personality of a seedless grape. Need I say more?" 

I smiled. I couldn't help it. Block did look a bit like a chimpanzee. 

"First it was just the following me around. Then it was the 'hey, blue-eyes' line. Then it was the 'I've got this friend who can help you get some quick cash' thing." 

"Doing what?" I asked. 

"He didn't say," Blair replied. "Just told me to let him know if I was interested and pushed a book of matches in my hand." 

I gave him a look that actually motivated him out of his tired stupor. He scrambled off the couch and to the bathroom where he had left his clothing. He came back holding the book of strike-on-back matches that had the logo of the Powder Keg on the back. He held it open reading the inside cover. 

"Jim?" His voice was now awake and serious. "I just made contact." 

He handed me the book. Written on the inside cover were a short note and a number. 

'I know Brutus  
555-7112' 

* * *

"The number belongs to one Greg Beckler," Simon said as he came back into his office bearing a paper that he just retrieved from central dispatch. "I had him ran for priors. Just three minor assault charges, two of which were dropped and one he served six months for. He's a bit of a hot head, but I bet he is also someone's hired muscle." 

"He drives a new BMW Z3. Little fancy for a bar bouncer, if you ask me," I shrugged. "Sure like to see how much he reported to the IRS." 

"Not enough, I'll bet," Blair muttered. 

"If this guy knows Brutus, this could be the in we are looking for." Simon sat down at his desk carefully. He still favored his right side, the side he got perforated by Zeller's special armor piecing bullets. "You think you can talk this guy into a hook-up, Sandburg?" 

Call me crazy, but all my mother hen alarms went off right then. I didn't say a word though. It made the back of my throat burn like the back bite of good picante salsa. That is serious emotion. I wonder if other people can taste their own reactions when they are strong and sudden. I knew I had to stop worrying about him so much. Wasn't I the one who told him he was the best cop and best partner I'd ever encountered? 

Blair nodded at Simon. "I can do it. He's hot for me." 

Simon did a double take on that. That cleared up the distress in me and made me chuckle. It was just that matter-of-fact way Sandburg said it and that comical expression on Simon's face. It was a good thing he wasn't drinking anything. 

"Are you sure this isn't bugging you, Sandburg?" Simon asked drilling him with a frown. 

Blair shrugged, and I'd seen that expression on his face before. It's like 'yeah, I don't care but it is bugging the hell outta me' look. It's the one where he won't exactly look you in the eye. I knew what was making him so uncomfortable. This subject was too close to a secret of his. He didn't know that I knew, although I wonder sometimes. Maybe he didn't want to know that I knew. If I was him, I wouldn't.... Did you get that? 

"I got it under control, Simon," he said with a slight sigh and another shrug. 

Simon watched him over the rim of his glasses. It's that thing he does when he's trying to read the truth out of people. "You sure?" 

Blair nodded. 

"Stick with him Ellison," Simon turned a probing look my way. "Don't let him out of your sight... Wait; let me correct that.... Outta your range to reach him in a timely manner." 

I felt a smirk cross my face briefly. Yeah, I knew what he was driving at. I wasn't about to let Blair get too far from me, either. This whole thing felt trickier than it looked on the surface. Maybe Simon sensed that too. 

***Taste like chicken.... *** 

The Powder Keg is larger than the average hole-in-the-wall gay bars on the bad side of town. It has a good size full bar that seats about fifteen. There are two rows of tables going from the storefront to the lone pool table sitting in the back just before the door to the lone unisex bathroom. How a place of its size got away with only having one unisex head was amazing to me. I wonder how much the owner was slipping the city inspector to pull that off. 

I wandered through the place nursing a beer. The summer was getting warmer, and I really wanted to down the damn thing quick before it skunked up from heat but I was on the job that night. The beer was a prop. The front door was closed now, and I could tell by the squeaky hum in the background of the tinny jukebox that the A/C was trying to work. It was getting nowhere, fast. I didn't think all the freon in the world could have helped it now. 

The afternoon had slowly progressing into evening and sundown was coming to a close. It was staying light up into eight o'clock now. A few weeks from now, we would have daylight up till nine PM. 

I was keeping an eye on him like Simon asked. It was a relatively easy job, being he hadn't been very mobile. He was sitting at a table midway in the bar talking to two of the regulars, Martin and an ex-navy man who just calls himself Smitty. Greg the bouncer, or Block, had been keeping an eye on him too, sometimes abandoning his post at the door to breeze by and drop a few words at him. Blair had played it as mildly receptive with him. He wanted to keep Block curious. 

I settled on a barstool, and, against my better judgment, I drained my beer. I turned my attention to the bartender to flag him for a fresh one. By the time the bartender had pulled another draft for me, Block was back at Blair's side. This time his tone was insistent, and I tuned into the conversation. 

"Look you little junkie faggot, either you want it or you don't. I don't have time for a cock tease." 

"I never said I didn't want it. I just want to think it over. I can't really give you all that time... I don't know...." 

"Fuck you! Fuck you! You think your little ass-pussy is made of solid gold? There are guys chomping at bit to get their hands on some of Brutus' cash. I can get you in, and all you can say is, 'I don't know if I can afford a weekend in your bed.' Well, Fuck you, then." 

"I have regulars..." 

"I don't fuckin' care who you sold the plate of ham to, bitch. I'm talking about a once in a lifetime deal. But fuck you, anyway. Go play the skin flute on your regulars." 

"Wait! What if we talk? I mean we can come to an agreement... maybe not all weekend..." 

Blair was about to trap himself. I knew that I needed to stop this before it got out of hand; before it went places that it shouldn't go. He needed to establish contact, not get himself in a weekend sex romp with Block the bonobo bouncer. I decided to play the jealous chicken hawk. It was time to step in on the dance. 

The beer was sat down before me, and I gave it one good long pull before I sat it back down on the bar, and left it behind as I rose to make my presence known. I moved with purpose up to Blair's table stepping behind Block and pulling myself up to full height. I knew it would be a mistake to let on that I knew what the two of them were talking about. I felt that my best bet was to get Blair out of there for a moment. Get him to a fall back position to regroup. I had the perfect line for it. 

I looked Blair square in the eye, fixing him with my best 'I'm-gonna-pound-you' gaze. "You owe me." 

Block turned and glared at me. Blair's mouth dropped open in something between shock and indecision. 

"Um... I don't have it, Jim... not yet..." He finally stuttered out. 

I shifted on my feet and looked about the room, purposely avoiding looking at Block, as if he wasn't even there. "You said that last time." 

"Look, I know I owe you a lot, Jim." Blair was catching up on the diversion. He was always a quick study. 

"We need to negotiate this," I then added in a softer and more critical tone, "Somewhere else." 

His eyes got round in trepidation. I wasn't sure if it was feigned or not. "Ahh... I'm sort of in the middle of something..." 

"If it's not about paying me, then I think we have much more urgent business to attend to," I replied. At that point I looked Block over carefully. I made sure he was aware that we seem an even match as I crossed my arms to flex them under the rolled sleeves of my shirt. 

Block snorted at me, but took one step back and out of my way. His smirk was just about obscene, and I didn't want to know what he had in mind. I kept up with the act and grabbed for Blair's arm, dragging him to his feet. 

"C'mon," I ordered, and I headed for the back of the bar. There's a side door, just past the pool table and to the left of the lone bathroom. The door lets out to a back alleyway beside the Powder Keg. In retrospect, I see why my choice of locales was incredibly wrong. I guess I had been banking on the fact that we wouldn't be followed, and that we wouldn't have to maintain the cover. I guess that makes me the dork of this story. Seasoned cop, my ass. I won't even say it was the one beer I swilled down that impaired my judgment. 

I didn't look back to see if he followed; I could feel his presence on the skin of my back. His warmth and his heartbeat were palpable through my clothing. The screen door banged shut behind us, and I walked a little further into the alley. When I stopped and turned, he bumped into me. It was a little too dark for him. I heard him take a breath to quietly lay me out, but I clamped my hand over his open mouth. He didn't move. 

Block. I could smell the bastard. He had followed us, and he wasn't alone. I didn't see who the second person was. They were hiding behind some pallets stacked against the wall just before the corner to the storefront of the bar. They must have came through the front door. I could hear Block whisper to the other. "See he's just a little hustler... like I told you" 

I leaned in close to Blair and whispered in his ear, "Being watched." 

He nodded, and I slipped my hand away from his face. 

"I really need my money," I said in a normal tone. Then I added in a quick whisper, "What the fuck were you doing in there?" 

"Establishing contact," Blair replied in a raspy whisper. "I just don't have that kind of cash... but we can negotiate services," he added in a normal voice. I really didn't pay attention to what he was saying in the cover. Once more, I must say, hindsight.... 

"What did he want? A couple nights for Brutus?" I whispered, furious at him for letting get that far. 

"I was going to see if I could get the contact before I had to pay up," he whispered back. 

"Fuckin' trade for services. I need cash!" I spoke in my best calm, yet belligerent tone. I did notice the change in Blair's tone. It took on this strange sultry ring that I had heard him use a few times while he was talking to some sexual conquest over the phone. 

"You need a lot of things... I've got a few of them." 

They were still watching. I heard one of their heart rates speed up after Blair's suggestive comment. Probably Block. He had the hots for Blair after all. We had to be just two silhouettes to them, visible but not distinguishable. Maybe. Sometimes I'm not sure. I see so well in the dark, it is hard for me to judge just how well others are seeing in the same darkness. Blair had run into me, but that may have been because I stopped so abruptly. 

"I'm not doin' this again. Next time, it's money." I intended to end it like that, to turn and walk away, our watchers still eyeballing us. I didn't. I still had a hold of his arm, and he shook free of my grasp with a twist and a swing of his arm. 

"This is as good as gold," he purred. 

Then he dropped to his knees. 

Once upon a time there was this guy named Jim Ellison. Now Jim had at one time been a simple guy with simple needs. A million years ago, on a little island called Bali, he thought he had found his true love and the best sex of his life with a woman named Lilah. Lilah had talent. She showed me things about my body I never knew before. She had this amazing mouth that I thought I could never get enough of, even if I lived to be a sexual creature of one hundred. When she left me without explanation, one of the theories my broken heart conjured up was that she was some high priced call girl, and she didn't want to disappoint me with her past. 

She could do things with her tongue that I couldn't describe to you and give it justice if I wrote for pages and pages. It was incredible how she could make me lose time in pleasure. 

Blair made her look like a two-dollar whore. 

Yeah, I was just too shocked to react properly when he reached for my fly. My senses betrayed me for a moment, and I got disorientated on an overload of sensation when his hot hand rubbed up against the growing erection in my boxers. I didn't even hear myself groaning at first, I was so sunk into the zone-out, but I caught myself and shut my gaping mouth to stifle the groans that came with each breath. 

God, I didn't think that breath on my crotch could be so erotic, but Blair breathed out, and I swear, I nearly sprung out of my boxers at him. He spent some time nuzzling and mouthing me through the fabric of my shorts. I think my eyes rolled back in my head about then. There was no stopping this now... at least not from my end. I don't really remember him reaching into my boxers and pulling me out. All I know was suddenly my cock was being nibbled and kissed by hot wet lips. His tongue did this little dance around my cock head that made me shiver. Then I went into his mouth. 

Hot. Wet. Liquid pleasure. If I thought his tongue was good on the outside it was fantastic on the inside. At that point, I lost control of the moan reflex again, but I had ceased to care. He was fucking me with his mouth. My hands went into his messy tangle of curls. My legs were straining. I could feel my calf muscles quivering. When he grabbed my nut sack and pulled down, I bit off a small cry that came from the very bottom of my gut. 

He played with my balls for a while, rolling them in his hand as he continued to suck. He deep throated me a few times. Goddamn, it was incredible! The suction was so right. The movement of his tongue was pure heaven. 

He deep throated me one last time. I felt his throat relax to take me in. Then he swallowed around my cock. That was all I could take. The orgasm that followed was accompanied by a total sensory whiteout. Nothing existed in my world for a full thirty seconds other than the incredible sensory feed I was getting from my cock to the pleasure centers of my brain. 

In reality, it had been quick, sloppy and over in less than three minutes. In my reality, I had been hung in pleasures grip for eternity. I lost track of time. I may have even forgot my name for a second. 

Blair was standing and speaking before I even had noticed he had moved. 

"Now do I owe you?" 

I felt punch drunk and dumb, but I saw the man before me who made my body react so very well. I reached for him. I really don't know what I was thinking. Why did I want just one kiss? I grasped his shoulders and pulled him to me clumsily, but I was still half dazed. He broke my grip easily. 

"Just pay me," he said in a harsh tone. 

I barely knew what I was doing when I pulled the twenty from my wallet. I hadn't even pulled up my jeans, and they were sagging around my butt. The bill was snatched from my hands, and Blair departed in a hurry that could have been interpreted as a fit of pique. To put a fine point on the state of my confusion, I had just paid him for a fuck he supposedly owed me. 

Guess what I did? Nothing. I stood there like a stupid moron gawking after him with my pants half down my butt... till the lights went out. 

* _Block the Electrician_ * 

I woke up pretty groggy, and I knew that someone had tried to drug me after I had been more conventionally knocked unconscious. A lot of anesthetics don't work like they should on me. Some don't knock me out at all, while others can knock me out for longer than is usual. Some even arrest my breathing in the ever-so-slightly wrong doses. 

My nose acted as my early warning center, which was unusual but fortunate. I could still smell Block. He was close. I didn't move. I wasn't in the alley still. I was indoors. The air smelled slightly stale and recirculated. Someone was moving around me, and I could hear the hollow echo of their shuffling against solid walls. I was lying flat on something that felt much more comfortable than the hard pavement of the alleyway. Beneath my fingertips I could feel vinyl. It had to be an examination table of some sort. 

I redirected my senses inwards and made myself aware of my body. I could feel restraints on my wrist. They were padded restraints. I could feel the cushion against the heel of my palms. My ankles were wrapped in restraints as well, probably padded too. I couldn't feel the bite of straps but felt the pressure around my anklebone. 

My head hurt. There was a sort of raw ache behind my left ear that told me that I had been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. The dull throbbing was not as intense as it could have been, and that was probably an effect of the anesthetic they gave me. It probably worked a bit as an analgesic. That much my body accepted from the drug. Thank God for that. 

I felt a whoosh of air against my face, as a door was open. Another person moved into the room, a different smell, clean like hand soap from a men's restroom. 

"Beckler, Dammit!" The voice was thick and familiar, but not familiar. It was hard to explain. It was a voice I had heard before, but with a different tone, a different accent. The guy didn't have a foreign accent, just different. I didn't dare open my eyes to look. 

"What!?" 

Something hit a table with a thud and a slap. "The bastard is a cop!" 

"Huh?" 

Block was not the sharpest pencil in the box. 

I bet the thud was my shield. I couldn't feel anything in my pockets. I should have felt my wallet and my shield against my right buttock. 

There was some more shuffling then the other voice said. "Fucking leave it alone, dumb ass. I gave him enough propofol to keep him out for at least eight hours." 

I heard the click of what could have been a gun safety. I wondered what Block had had in mind. 

"What now?" 

"Probably just a dumb vice cop," the other man said. "We can't just set him back on the streets like nothing happened. He'll know something is up." There was a long pause then a quick sigh. "I'll talk to Julius. He's probably the healthiest specimen we have seen all year. It would be a shame to give him up." 

Block giggled. 

"What?" the man shifted. 

"Fucking vice cop let that twink get his rocks off in the alley. Bet that's not proper police procedure." 

"Shut up, Beckler." 

Thank you! 

I was stuck. At the time, I would have bet that whoever the guy was, he was either Brutus or deeply involved in Brutus' operation. Block was just some hired muscle. Julius was another conspirator. I kept my eyes close and my body still. I still had the element of surprise on them. They didn't know I was awake. 

How the fuck did I let that happen to me? I know. I let my dick take over for a bit. I should have known better than to ever let my cock have the driver's seat. Nothing good could come of it. I didn't even realize Block had moved up behind me in the alley. I really was having problems adjusting my body again to the proper flow of time. Then the lights went out. At least I found the electrician, not that it helped me any after the fact. 

"What about the hustler?" Leave it to Block to still be thinking with his dick. 

"Forget him," the man growled. "We need a fall guy once someone notices a cop missing. The little butt-pirate was the last to see him." 

"I get it." 

Good boy. Have a cookie. 

"You sure he's really out?" Beckler asked. I could smell him getting closer. The hair on the back of my neck was raised. "I thought I saw him twitch." 

"He's out. Not dead, you moron!" 

"Geeze," Block expelled indignantly. "You don't have to be so pissy." 

"You were the fucking idiot that knocked out a cop and dragged him in here!" 

"He would have been in the way." 

"Still fucking thinking with your faggot-ass dick!" Then there was another sigh. I was thinking, at least between the other guy and me, we had a consensus. "Dammit, Beckler. Just stand there and don't do squat till I tell you." 

There was a slight smell of ozone in the air and the room got a little warmer. They must have turned on another light somewhere behind me. I could barely see the extra radiance threw my eyelids. I heard the plastic click of a phone being picked up and then the dull whine of a dial tone. A phone number was quickly punched in. The voice on the other side sounded a bit more refined as he said his hello and announces himself. 

"Hello, Julius Marsh." 

"Yes, Julius, William here. We have a bit of a problem." 

"Oh?" 

"The hired help brought something undesirable home, but I think we can make the best of a bad situation." 

"Hmmm..." The voice on the other end was silent for a time and 'William' waited. I wondered if they had some sort of code between them because 'William' didn't seem inclined to explain further to Julius. 

"What does the undesirable look like?" Julius asked. 

"Male, thirty-eight to forty-five, Caucasian, good physical health. From the curvature of the fifth finger, may carry more than one genotype for RSS... maybe 15q26 but not r15. He certainly has all normal growth and development. Couldn't tell without a DNA profile. " 

"Should make for an interesting work up. But tell me, what is the trouble with this one?" 

"He's a cop." 

"Hmmm." Julius was quiet again. "And you want to go forward." 

"He is too good of a specimen to waste... and he is already here. The damage is done, Julius." 

"I concur. Okay. Get him prepped. I'll be there in ten minutes." The phone at the other end clicked off. William sighed again and put the phone down. 

"Okay, Beckler. We are going ahead with this... Damn, I wish we still had our other facility. This rat-hole just seems so cramped to me." 

It was about then that I heard the soft click to my right. It echoed quickly off the walls and the ceiling of the room, and I wondered how much bigger the other place William mentioned could be. This room felt pretty damn roomy enough to me. The click was only audible to me, and I let my hearing wander off in that direction. Then I caught the soft whisper of his breath and the quick pounding of his heart, the very slight smell of fennel mixed with his distinct scent. Blair. 

Did he follow Block here? I didn't know. I thought he had left. Maybe he did. Maybe he just figured it out? I didn't know, but my heart leaped into my throat when I recognized him, his smell, his panic. My brain was screaming, 'damn Blair, do this right! Don't get yourself killed.' 

Blair took a bigger breath. My thoughts changed to, 'NO not yet! Wait till the other conspirator comes! Get them all!' 

"Freeze! Cascade PD!" 

"Fuck!" That was said by Block. 

"Shoot him, you asshole!" That was William. 

About that time, I decided that staying still was no longer to my advantage. I opened my eyes in time to see Block turn his gun to Blair who was positioned behind some crates. The room looked like a converted storage locker with a stainless steel table and a surgical lamp. Blair blocked the egress of the two men. William was a tall scrawny African American man that looked familiar to me, but I still could not place him. 

Block shot wild in Blair's general direction. He got off three rounds before Blair dropped him with three of his own. William had put himself behind me for protection. There was something sharp and cold placed against my throat. I couldn't see what it was for sure, but I guessed it was a scalpel or some other sharp surgical tool. 

"Drop the gun, or I'll cut him!" 

"Give it up, Bill! You can't get out of here without a hostage, and I don't think you are prepared to untie him." 

Bill the bum! The unofficial Union Mission welcome wagon. How the fuck did I miss that? Bill looked down at me and noticed with almost comical alarm that I was awake. 

"Put it down, Bill," Blair said. "I know you are smarter than that." 

Bill must have seen the no-win situation he was in. He couldn't free me and keep me under control with just the scalpel. He couldn't kill me. I was the only card he could play. If he waited too long, the place would be crawling with cops, and the question would be moot. 

I heard the scalpel hit the floor with a metallic tinkle. Blair advanced. Bill was quickly turned against a wall. I couldn't see what was happening, but I could hear Blair pat him down. Then there was a click of handcuffs as Blair angrily spat Miranda rights out at the man. 

There was noise beyond the storage gate. The back up had arrived. In minutes the place was converged upon by at least a dozen of Cascade's finest. Blair turned his prisoner over to an uniformed officer. Then he turned to me. 

"You okay, Jim?" I could feel the guilt dripping off his voice. 

"Yeah. I'm good." 

Believe it or not, that was all we said to each other. He undid the restraints, and then I was up and talking to Simon, who had arrived on the scene in record time. Blair did not mention how I came to be Brutus' captive. Neither did I. I seriously wondered if I could just blank it out... like Peru. 

I doubt it. 

* _What twenty dollars will buy you_ * 

For the next few days, I made myself really busy. Blair did, too. He was on administrative suspension or "desk-duty." Block, Greg Beckler, had died a day later from the wounds he sustained in the gun battle. That meant Blair had to do the justifiable shooting investigation. It was justifiable. I suspected that the investigation would take at the most two days after the forensics teams gave their reports. 

Julius or Dr. Julius Marsh walked into the arms of the Uniforms still at the scene. He came along for questioning peacefully. Bill the Bum was actually Dr. William Brut, an acclaimed endocrinologist who lacked funding and backing for his recent radical experiments. He needed somewhat healthy human pituitary glands. He was testing a DNA replacement therapy that would have prolonged life and youth, had it worked. Most people it just killed, according to the good doctor's notes. A few people walked out of the procedure and were well compensated to keep quiet. Other went into a coma. 

Marsh was funneling his own funding to Brut. Together with the help of a silent unknown rich financier, they were slowly but surely perfecting the procedure. I was to be subject 26. My excellent health played into the factor of my chances of survival. 

Serena came back with some news to help stick a murder conviction on the team. There was no prior DNA to link Jeff Cook to the barrel of ashes, but there was some to link his companion Drew. Andrew Hess had DNA on file and DNA in the barrel. That was one body found. Once the stakes got higher, the two good doctors sang like canaries in the hopes of making the other look like the mastermind and perhaps cutting a deal with the DA. Not that any of that made Martha O'Shannasey happy. Can't please everyone. Amazingly enough neither scientist felt brave enough to squeal out the rich silent partner. We knew we had our work cut out for us in tracing that individual down. 

Not that Blair really wanted it, but Simon commended Sandburg on his operation. It had worked, and we had brought down the Southtown bogeyman. He never did ask how I came to be tied up in Dr. Brut's improvised lab. Simon just gave me this critical glance when we spoke on the case and the outcome. I was supposed to be protecting Blair. Instead, Blair wound up pulling my ass out of the fire. 

You know that wasn't even the hard part. The hard part was at home. Silence for days. I didn't talk. He didn't talk, but we walked around doing everything like usual. I made dinner. He ate dinner. We watched the tube. He went on dates. I watched the tube. There was just no ordinary conversation to go along with this backdrop of normalcy. The most we discussed was who was going to the store next and how much was the light bill. 

Here is the plain truth. I didn't know how to approach him. I didn't know what it was that had happened between us really. He gave me the best blowjob of my life, and I had wanted to kiss him. My male partner gave me the _best_ blowjob of my life. 

I knew that it was nothing new to him, but it was new to me. I really didn't know how to process all that. His silence felt like embarrassment and suspicion. My silence was confusion and fear. However, I knew we couldn't maintain this silence and keep our partnership. I knew he had to know that too. 

There was no one I wanted for my partner other than Blair Sandburg. 

I decided to start talking on the morning of the fourth day. The night of the third day I had a dream much like many other dreams I have had of him. This one was a half-forgotten impression by the time I woke up. All I recalled was the longing. 

The silence had to stop, but I found it a fascinating phenomenon while it was happening. As I said before, my silence was born from my confusion and fear. Except the most interesting thing about my fear was that I was not scared of the things that I would have assumed before would make me run and hide. Regardless of that, I still found it hard to move. Was it too late to go back? Was there a forward? 

I stopped him before he could leave for the store. 

"You have enough money for food?" 

He dug into his pockets and pulled out wadded bills, three tens, some ones and a twenty. It was my twenty, in fact. I recognized the blue ink stain on the side under the federal reserve seal. 

"My twenty." Okay, in retrospect, I felt stupid for acknowledging it. 

"Want it back?" It was an automatic response from Blair. He didn't even give a thought to what it represented. 

Thank God I kept my mouth clamped around a reply like, "No thanks. You earned it." 

"Look, Jim," he said as he looked me in the eye. It his signal to me that he knew it was time to really talk. "What happened... in the alley...." 

"Was you maintaining cover. If you hadn't, maybe they would have pegged us both as cops. I don't know, Chief." I felt pretty damn uncomfortable. However I knew there would be no comfort between us if I didn't reestablish our relationship as friends. "All I know is that if things hadn't happened the way they did, we may have never brought down Dr. Brut's operation. Let's not go too deep into the particulars." 

He looked at me and I saw a change in his eyes, an understanding, maybe a little sadness. I didn't know at the time. "Okay, Jim." He said softly. "What about the twenty?" 

I shrugged. 

He put his money back in his pocket and left the twenty in front of me on the kitchen counter. I watched him slide out the front door with a small wave. He would be back with the groceries and the silence would be broken. There sat the twenty-dollar bill, crumpled and used. The lone piece of evidence to our sexual encounter: The fucking best blowjob of my life. 

I let it sit there too. 

End. 

Continued in Part 3  
Canary in a Coal Mine 

* * *

End 

I'm Not Scared But I Can't Move by E. Batagur: batagur@columbus.rr.com  
Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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